Share Each Other Like An Island
by The Gemini Sage
Summary: Dean never expected to see his amulet again, much less with Sam's soul inside. Together, he and Cas must learn the amulet's complicated history to save Sam's soul. Sam/Dean/Cas, spoilers for everything up to 6.11.


**This is AU for 6.10 and 6.11 and contains spoilers for everything up to those episodes. The events of "Caged Heat" never happened; Crowley didn't die and so Dean didn't contact Death as an alternative. Sam did ask Balthazar about a way to keep a soul out and attempt to go through with killing Bobby, but Dean got to him at the last second as he did in canon. This takes place shortly after that. **

**The title comes from _Set the Fire to the Third Bar_ by Snow Patrol.**

**This story contains sex. Unfortunately, because of FFN's policies, I had to edit a _lot_ of the sex out, so the sex scenes come across a little roughly. If you are legally old enough to read sexual content in your area and wish to view the unedited work, you can see it at "thegeminisage dot livejournal dot com forward-slash 43244 dot html". Thank you!**

"Where the hell did you get that?" Dean breathes.

The amulet swings back and forth, leather cord held lightly between Crowley's fingertips as though it's something he'd prefer not to be touching. He raises an eyebrow, drags his gaze up from it and back to Dean's face.

Every time Crowley smirks, Dean wants to kill him. This time is no different.

_"I don't need this anymore." Castiel tosses the amulet to Dean, just enough warning to give Dean time to catch it. It doesn't hit the ground._

"Surely even _you_ can put that one together." Crowley twirls the amulet's cord up in one quick motion, shiny new brass slapping against his palm. "You give me an alpha, I give back a little...no matter how bitten up you are. Wasn't that the bargain?" His fingers wrap around the amulet and hold on, and Dean's breath catches in his chest for one agonizing, terrifying moment before Crowley's tossing the amulet to him. Dean's surprised, but he catches it.

It doesn't hit the ground.

"That's for the werewolf; here's hoping you don't turn next full moon. Cheers." Crowley turns to go, then stops. "Oh, and Dean—I wouldn't give it back straight away if I were you."

Dean clenches his fist around the amulet. "You've had your fun with him, all right? We're done."

"Once you put it in him, there's no taking it back," Crowley says. "Wait. Give it time to heal. I don't want you pestering me again if he turns into a drooling vegetable." He brushes his suit off, as if the amulet contaminated him, and Dean barely manages to swallow his fury. "Now let's both of us hope we never have to meet again, hm?"

Dean narrows his eyes, and even though he's not looking at it he can feel the amulet warm and heavy in his palm. He keeps his eyes on Crowley until Crowley's gone, and then he loosens his fingers and looks down at what's in his hands.

_"It's worthless," Cas tells him, and walks away._

Dean can't believe he just threw this away.

After Crowley's gone, Dean sinks down into the dusty armchair in the corner of the room, trying to ignore the smell of piss and how badly his bite wounds sting, and the way the late afternoon sun filtering in through what's left of the roof feels too hot on his skin. He has to focus on this, has to, because—he can't _believe_ it.

The first thing that strikes him is how different it looks now. When he threw it into that trashcan, it was _his amulet_, a dull brass pendant on a worn leather cord. This...isn't. It's shiny, clean, so bright it almost looks gold, and the cord is stiff and new.

But it's the same one. It's got to be. It's just...restored. Whole.

He doesn't hesitate to slip it back around his neck. It feels warm through his shirt where it rests against his chest, makes the wounds there hurt a little less. This was always the safest place for it. Where he couldn't lose it, where it couldn't get away from him.

Dean runs his thumb over the amulet, is certain he feels it warm up a little in response. _Sammy_, he thinks, and drops it before that can sink in, because he can't right now, he _can't_.

His hands are shaking as he gets out his phone and dials Bobby's number.

_Dean knows this will never happen again._

_The knowledge terrifies him in a way he can't quite explain. Spending an eternity in Hell without Sam is bad enough; feeling Sam's tears hot against his skin, knowing he's the reason for them, that's worse._

_Sam, too, knows this will never happen again._

_They can talk all they like about saving Dean, breaking his deal, but time's up; he's got just over a day left and they're no closer to finding a way out now than they were a year ago. There's a heavy sense of dread in Dean's gut, a certain knowledge he can't shake; death is coming, Hell is coming, and there's no way to stop it._

_"Shh," he tries, letting a hand slide down Sam's back. Hot as it is outside, they're under all the blankets, both naked save for the amulet around Dean's neck. They're slicked and sticky with sweat, and normally they'd be up and showering by this point, but Dean's not about to let Sam go now._

_The sex wasn't good. They've been doing this for years, everything from a rough release of adrenaline after a hunt to long lazy hours spent teasing each other just because they could—but this, this had been desperate, needy, and by the end they were both in tears. Dean makes it a point to hide his face, not let Sam see, but once Sam gets going he doesn't seem to be able to stop, and all Dean can do after that is hold him and hate himself for putting Sam through this._

_"Sammy, c'mon," he whispers finally. He doesn't lie about finding a way out. He doesn't say that everything's going to be okay. And Sam's still crying, shaking with the effort of keeping it silent. It's odd; Dean's the one dying, the one who should be scared. He's going to __Hell_. But it's Sam that's going to have to live without Dean, that's going to have to live with the knowledge that Dean is burning for _him_. That's a kind of Hell in itself, one their dad didn't hesitate to inflict on Dean, and it's not fair for him to do the same thing to Sam. But Dean couldn't live with Sam dead. He didn't know what to do_._

_It's minutes or hours later when Sam finally calms down enough to speak. "If we can't...Dean, I'll find a way to get you back."_

_"Sam."_

_"I promise. I will, Dean. I won't let you stay long." His voice is steady, but strained. "So don't—don't turn, while you're down there. Okay? Think of me, and—I'll get you back."_

_Dean feels Sam's hand move up his chest, close around the amulet. He lays his hand on top of Sam's, tries to comfort his brother and stay stoic at the same time. "You can't. Didn't make this deal so you could follow me, Sam. You'd better not do anything stupid, you hear me? It'll be for _nothing_ if something happens to you."_

_"I won't," Sam whispers. "I promise." Then: "But don't forget me," he insists again. "Dean, God, just _stay human_, and I'll find a way to get you back. Promise me? Please."_

_Dean squeezes his brother a little tighter, fighting down his own panic. He knows he shouldn't, but he can't stop thinking about what Hell will be like—all that pain, alone, forever. Remembering Sammy will be the only thing that keeps him sane, so— "I promise," Dean says, and at the time, he means it._

_But they've both made promises they can't keep._

The drive to Bobby's place should be shorter than the six hours it takes him, but Dean busted himself up good going after the alpha werewolf, and it's a little hard to drive. The bites and clawmarks on his chest are burning everywhere except where the amulet lies against his skin, and he aches all over from bruises and a few cracked ribs. He did a quick patch-up on himself after the whole thing was over, but it's obviously not going to be enough. Not that there's an alternative. He prayed to Cas once before he went, asking for help, but no answer came, so he won't bother to pray for Cas to come mop him up after.

So he pulls into Bobby's driveway later than he should have, and if Bobby had given him an earful over the phone, it was nothing compared to what he had to say in person. Something along the lines of _I'm half tempted to kill you myself, boy_ and _don't you know how to take care of werewolf bites, you idjit_ and _damn, son, I can't believe you did it_.

Bobby helps Dean inside, fussing all the while, and when Dean finally gets over to the couch he just collapses, groaning because it makes everything ache in protest.

"You could've warned me you were goin' after the damn thing instead of takin' off in the middle of the night," Bobby growls, as he helps Dean get his shirt off. Dean's almost completely covered in cuts and bites, and there's one nasty slash across his right eyebrow that's probably going to scar. Everything hurts, twice as much when Bobby starts flushing his wounds with holy water.

"God damn," Dean swears. He's half out of it already; if Bobby doesn't ease up, Dean's not going to be able to stay awake. "Bobby, somebody had to watch Sam. I already did this—"

"Can't be too careful," Bobby insists, and yeah, he's probably right. Dean has already experienced life as a vampire; he doesn't want to add werewolf to the list. "The wounds are still smoking," Bobby tells him. "So obviously you didn't do enough."

"Where's Sam?" Dean asks weakly. There's black gathering at the edges of his vision. "Is he—"

"Sam's fine. Still in the panic room, strapped in tight." Bobby grimaces. "Checked on him a few minutes before you pulled up." He pauses, movements slowing. "Dean. What's this?"

Bobby's fingers are bloody, but so is Dean's chest, so it doesn't hurt anything for him to pick up the amulet. Wouldn't be the first time it's had a little blood on it.

"Sam's soul," Dean says, and passes out.

_"Sam, it's time. Are we doing this or not?"_

_Sam and Ruby are standing in front of a sign that tells them St. Mary's Convent is only two miles away. Cindy McClellan is locked up tight in the back of the ugly orange taxi Sam hotwired a few states ago. There's a demon back there with her, too, but it's impossible to tell which one of them is the one screaming and pounding against the trunk, begging them for mercy, or which one of them will feel it when they bleed her out and let Sam drink her dry._

_Her begging seems to be working, at least on Sam. "Give me a minute to think," he says to Ruby._

_"Sam—"_

_"Give me a damn minute, Ruby!" Sam snaps._

_"Better think fast," Ruby mutters, but she leaves Sam alone._

_Sam takes a deep breath, dials is voicemail, and brings his cellphone to his ear._

_Dean's voice comes through the line, hard and angry. "Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam-a vampire. You're not_

you_ anymore. And there's no going back."_

_There's a long, tense moment where Sam's face falls. He closes his eyes; he's fighting tears. He lowers the phone and closes it._

_Sam tells Ruby, his voice choked, "Do it."_

When Dean comes to, the first thing he checks for is the amulet. It's still there, he can feel its weight on his chest, and the thought is so reassuring he nearly falls asleep again. But his brother's all tied up in the panic room again, and Dean can't just leave him there.

He sits up and the sheets fall down, revealing all the patchwork Bobby had to do to keep him from bleeding out. It's dark outside but he's not dead yet, so he stumbles out of bed and pulls on the first shirt he finds, leaning kind of heavily on the wall as he makes his way downstairs.

When he finally gets to the kitchen, Bobby's sitting there with a cup of joe and a newspaper, like it was any other day.

"Am I still human?" is the first thing out of Dean's mouth, because it's not long until the full moon and he'd hate to have to put a bullet in his brain before he got the business with Sam's soul straightened out.

Bobby looks up and sets the newspaper down. "Yeah," he replies. "Been doing silver checks."

And _that's_ why he's more cut up than he remembers. "Must've used up all your holy water," Dean jokes weakly, easing himself down to sit across from Bobby.

"And then some," Bobby says, giving him a hard look. "Had to call in a buddy yesterday to come down here and have a look at you, make sure. Boy, if you _ever_ do a damn fool thing like that again—"

"Yesterday?" Dean asks, alarmed. "How long was l out?"

"Two and a half days," Bobby answers, and he doesn't sound happy about it. "Coffee?" he asks.

"Beer?" Dean tries.

"Coffee," Bobby repeats firmly, and gets up to pour him a mug. He knows better than to add any of that sugar and shit Sam likes in his, just gives it to Dean black like he—

"Sam," Dean breathes, and his hand automatically finds his amulet, his touchstone. The long months since he's worn it haven't been enough to break that habit. "He's still okay?"

"He's fine," Bobby says, setting down an old chipped mug in front of Dean. Dean wraps his hands around it at once, savoring the warmth. "I've been lettin' him loose once or twice a day for the essentials—at gunpoint," Bobby adds. "I can tell he's tryin' to come up with some way out, but..." He waves a hand and sits back down. "Well. Don't matter now." His eyes fall to the amulet. "You're supposed to put that on him?"

"I guess." Dean looks down at the pendant and squeezes it, can almost feel it pulse in response. That's a _soul_. That's _Sam's soul_. "You know, I—" He swallows. "I threw this away." It's not news to Bobby; Bobby knows everything about them and then some, including a few things Dean would prefer he didn't.

"You didn't know," Bobby says. He's not into chick flick moments any more than Dean is, so Dean appreciates the effort, though he can't quite meet Bobby's eyes. After a beat, Bobby coughs. "If it makes you feel any better, he kept it."

Dean looks up sharply. "_What?_" he asks. "Why didn't you ever—"

Bobby shrugs. "He asked me not to. One of the last things before—" He stops, clears his throat. "Before he jumped."

The silence is too thick, too heavy. Dean feels like the cruelest, _stupidest_ sonofabitch in the world, and he can't stand it. "Then I guess it was in the Pit." Dean's laugh is hollow, broken. Even the amulet has gone to Hell and back.

"No." Bobby frowns. "He said he wanted you to have it. Must've put it somewhere you'd find it, just before, though hell if I know where it was hid or how he even had the time."

Something in this doesn't quite add up. It's tugging at the back of Dean's mind, and he's wondering how the hell Crowley got his mitts on the amulet and managed to stuff Sam's soul inside. Something's missing, but—he doesn't know, can't care. They've got bigger problems.

"Crowley said if I give this to him now he'll—break." Dean lets out a slow breath.

"Well, we can't wait too much longer," Bobby warns. "He'll find a way to bust out. There's nothin' he ain't capable of at this point."

"Yeah," Dean agrees softly. He looks down at the amulet again and closes his hand protectively around it. If nothing else—at least Sam's not in Hell anymore. His brother isn't serving as some sick fucktoy for Michael and Lucifer, burning away for eternity. Even if they never fix him—Christ, he's _out_.

"I'm gonna take a walk," Dean decides.

"You don't want to see Sam?"

"No." They can pretend all they like, but it really hit Dean, when he saw Bobby seconds away from being killed in his own home. That person in there might have Sam's body and some of Sam's mind, but it isn't his brother. Dean's getting the same sick feeling he had when he realized Sam let him get vamped—the thing they've got tied up in the panic room is a just monster wearing his brother's face, and even thinking about going near him makes Dean's skin crawl.

The amulet around his neck, though—_that_ feels like Sam.

Dean gets painstakingly to his feet, waving Bobby off when Bobby comes to help him. It's cold outside and he's in his socks, but he doesn't care—he needs a minute. The rusted-over cars and bare trees block out most of the moonlight; it's dark and hard to see, and Dean nearly misses the outline of the Impala against the night. She's not where he left her; Bobby must have moved her while Dean was out. Dean didn't bring his keys, but he doesn't need the heater. He just gets in and shuts the door, tips his head back and closes his eyes so he can enjoy his sanctuary.

_"You mean to tell me you've never been up there doing a little cloud-seeding?"_

_"I've never had occasion, okay?" Castiel looks more uncomfortable than Dean's ever seen him, and it's a little amusing and sad all at once. He won't meet Dean's eyes, and Dean wonders absently what it'd take to make an angel blush._

_Dean's not really into guys, as a rule. The only guy he ever had it bad for was Sam, and between Ruby and the demon blood and Hell, they haven't—_done_ anything, since he got back. Haven't even talked about it. Sam caught him one time in the bathroom and got his arms all the way around Dean's waist before Dean's goddamned PTSD kicked in. His heart started racing and the room got too small and all he could think about was what usually happened down under after Alastair grabbed him that way. He pushed Sam off of him and got the fuck out of the bathroom, and they Didn't Talk About It. Sure, he's thought about maybe getting back on the horse; it's not hard to notice how easy Cas is on the eyes. What makes it even more tempting is that Dean has sort of a kink for introducing people to new things, making it better than they ever thought it could be, but..._

_He's just gonna have to take Cas somewhere else. He'll never admit it out loud, but he's a little gun-shy these days. He used to trust Sam more than anyone; would have trusted him to...fix that. But Sam is painful to even think about now._

_So he takes Cas to the car. It takes them all of fifteen minutes to find the brothel, and before Dean knows it they're inside and he's doing his best not to laugh at the look on Castiel's face._

_"Hey, relax," he says._

_"This is a _den of iniquity_," Castiel hisses. "I should not be here."_

_"Dude, you full-on rebelled against heaven. Iniquity is one of the _perks_."_

_He's not very surprised to learn the hooker didn't even get Castiel's trenchcoat off before Cas freaked her out, but something about it is still hilarious; Cas just doesn't seem to get people. It's a different side of him, something softer and less sure than the impression Cas gave off that night in Bobby's kitchen when he demanded respect._

_Cas—well, he's gun-shy._

_Dean likes this side of Cas, and he wants to see more of it. More importantly, he's not intimidated by it._

_Which is how, against his better judgement, he winds up making good on his promise not to let Cas die a virgin._

_He's surprised at how little effort it takes. Cas just looks so stiff and uncomfortable when Dean glances over at him, and Dean kind of feels bad for pushing him, so he tries to cheer Cas up. "Chastity not your type, huh?" he jokes lightly, as he parks the car. "Maybe you're just not into blondes."_

_Cas stays still. "It's not that. I don't have a preference for hair color."_

_Dean knows he should crack another joke, but he's curious. "What was it, then?"_

_"She wasn't comfortable," Castiel says. "She was attractive enough, I suppose, but—" He stops. "The more time I spend with humans the less I understand them," he mutters, and he sounds genuinely frustrated. "Acts of intimacy with strangers...why would anyone think—she didn't want to do that. _I_ didn't want to do that. Especially if she didn't want to."_

_"I'm sorry," Dean offers, and he is. "It's a lot better when you're doing it for fun instead of money."_

_Cas looks over at him and Dean realizes that was more or less a proposition. He doesn't take the words back, though—just waits._

_"You're not a stranger," Castiel says finally._

_"No," Dean agrees, pulse picking up a little._

_And so they wind up in the backseat of the Impala, being gun-shy together._

_It's a more than a little awkward, to begin with. Cas is completely out of his element, and at first they just sort of sit there, neither of them making the first move. But Dean takes the initiative, ghosting his fingers lightly over the sleeve of Castiel's jacket, up to his shoulder. He wants to pretend he's taking it slow for Castiel's benefit, but it's really for himself, too. He's been picky about his bedpartners since he got back; all women, and none that seemed physically stronger than him, no one who could hurt him the way he was hurt in Hell. Cas doesn't quite fit that bill, and even though Dean knows Cas wouldn't hurt him, the skittish part of him that spent thirty years under the blade doesn't want to go too far too fast._

_Cas, though—he's wearing this defensive expression that Dean doesn't like at all. "I don't know what you want me to do," he says stiffly, not meeting Dean's eyes._

_"Hey—relax," Dean says, like he did back at the brothel, but the tone is different this time; lower, a little more serious. He's relaxing a little himself, seeing this uncertain part of Castiel. "Gotcha covered." His hand is resting lightly on the nape of Castiel's neck, now, and he tugs him forward, noting the one moment of surprised hesitation before Cas gives. The first touch of their lips is soft, but the _sound_ it gets out of Cas is amazing. Dean's never heard him like that before, and he wants to hear it again. So he keeps kissing him, and Castiel seems to learn by example. He parts his lips for Dean at first, then reciprocates, teeth coming down lightly on Dean's bottom lip, all caution and curiosity._

_The problem comes the first time one of Dean's hands slide down Castiel's side, slip under his coat. Cas freezes._

_Dean stops, too, pulling his hand away but leaving their faces close. "Cas?"_

_"It's—strange," Castiel explains haltingly._

_Dean can feel every breath Cas takes; they're quick, a little labored, but Dean can't tell if it's arousal or fear. "We can just go in if you want," he offers. The last thing he wants to do is pressure Cas into this. But—_

_"No." Cas smiles a little. "This is a 'perk', I think. It's not—bad. Just...a lot."_

_And Dean gets that, he really does. "Well," he says. "Just...lemme know. The point is that you want it, that it makes you feel good."_

_"I do," Cas says, with a quiet kind of certainty that turns Dean on way more than it should. "It does."_

_So they go slow, take it easy, just a little at a time. At first Dean checks often to make sure Cas is okay with things, but by the time they're really into it Cas is asking for more, and Dean stops worrying. He winds up peeling that trench coat off and getting most of Cas uncovered, leaving kisses pressed against his skin. He takes Cas in his mouth and blows him nice and slow, and when Cas finally comes he's shaking with it. Dean eases him down from the high as gently as he can, shaking a little himself because he _needs_._

_"You want...?" Castiel breathes, after he's had a moment to recover._

_Dean swallows. "Yeah," he admits. And he trusts Cas enough to let Cas lean him back against the seat, get on top of him and give back a little._

_Even though they don't go all the way, Dean's figured out a few different ways to make an angel blush, figured out how to take Cas apart and put him back together again. And he's _remembered_, the difference between Hell and Earth, the difference between Alistair's rack and the backseat of his car._

_They don't make a habit of it. Cas doesn't die, and they don't do it again. But things are easier between them, a little more comfortable, and Dean doesn't forget._

Dean doesn't hear it or see it, but he knows when he's not alone in the car.

"You'll worsen your condition if you stay out here," Castiel says.

Dean chuckles weakly under his breath, eyes still closed. "Funny how you only care about my 'condition' after the deed's done," he says, and yeah, there's a little bitterness there. It's Sam's _soul_, and Dean knows—he _knows_ what Sam means to Cas. What he means to both of them.

"I couldn't answer you earlier," Castiel says after a moment. "There was fighting. I was injured."

Dean opens his eyes and turns his head. Cas is sitting shotgun, one arm thrown over the back of the seat in an oddly human-like position. It tends to come out more when they're alone, he's noticed that much. He looks human enough in this body, but Dean knows well enough he's got more faces than one. "How do you _injure_ a 'wavelength of celestial intent', anyway?" He brings one hand up in a half-hearted attempt at air quoting.

"It's complicated," Cas says flatly.

Dean hesitates a second before dropping his hand. "You okay?"

"I've recovered fully, yes." Castiel makes as if to reach for Dean, stops, then does it anyway. Dean stays perfectly still, because he knows Cas is still a little skittish about touchy-feely stuff, but Dean's relaxed, eyes on Castiel's face as Castiel brushes his fingers across the cut over Dean's eye. "You were also injured."

"A little." Dean feels a wry smile tug at the corner of his lips, because Cas always did stumble over things like _understatements,_ and he can't help but find it a little endearing.

Before his next breath, the pain is gone. "Thanks," he says. He didn't particularly like the idea of having to sit on his ass for the next week while he healed up.

"You captured the alpha, then?" Castiel asks. He's pulled his hand away again.

"Yeah."

"And Crowley—?"

"I got it." Dean sits up a little, now that he can. "Sam's soul, Crowley gave it to me—" His hand comes up to find the amulet again, and that's the first time Castiel's eyes leave his face. Castiel takes a quick, almost-human breath of surprise when he realizes what it is.

"How...?"

"Beats me," Dean said. "But it's his. I know it. I can feel it."

Castiel reaches out again, and just as quickly pauses. "May I?" he asks quietly.

_"I don't need this anymore. It's worthless."_

Dean doesn't answer him, because the logical answer is _yes_ and he still wants very much to say _no_.

The conflict must show on his face, because Cas drops his hand. "I can make sure," he says gently, "that it's a soul. Sam's, even. It won't hurt him." A pause, and he seems to know what Dean's thinking, because he adds, "Things were different then, Dean."

Castiel must have learned a lot from them; that was a Winchester apology, as indirect and sincere as they come. Some of the tension drains out of his shoulders, and just like that, Cas is forgiven. "Yeah, okay," he says finally, and even though there's some base instinct that's furious and terrified at the thought of Sam's soul being any further away from him than it has to be, he fights it down and takes the amulet off and lets Cas hold it.

Castiel takes a slow breath, closes his eyes. "It's a soul," he reports at once, voice soft. He squeezes it a little, letting out a sigh and opening his eyes. "It's Sam."

"Told you so," Dean jokes weakly.

Castiel's not laughing, though; he looks more worried than Dean's comfortable with. "He's damaged, very damaged." Cas squeezes the amulet like Dean's been doing, as if to try and provide some sort of solace. "It's like he's been skinned alive, a thousand times over. You _can't_ put this back in Sam's body, Dean. He won't—"

"That's what Crowley says, yeah." Dean doesn't want to hear this, can't hear this. "Figures this would be the first time angels and demons can agree on something, huh?" Dean lets out a slow breath, holds his hand out for the amulet. He's anxious, needs it next to him again. Cas seems reluctant to part with it too, but he does, and Dean feels a little more settled when the brass finally rests close to where his pulse beats. "I don't know what to do," he admits. He hesitates, but it's too much and he just has to keep going, telling Cas how and why Sam tried to kill Bobby, how close of a call it was with the werewolf, how he's at the end of his fucking rope and if he's done all this to get Sam's soul back and it's so fucked up Dean can't even _give_ it to him—

"There may be a way," Cas tells him, interrupting him, though not unkindly. "I don't...I don't know, for certain. I don't have much experience with soulmates."

Dean feels his face heat up. Cas is a surprisingly good listener, on those rare occasions Dean actually feels the need to Share His Feelings, but the whole soulmate thing is the last thing he wants to talk about. "Dude—"

"There's really no time to be delicate with the matter," Castiel says. "Denying it won't make it untrue. You are."

"Isn't there another word you can use?" Dean gripes, because true or not, _soulmates_ sounds like something from a bad Hallmark flick.

"You were anxious when you took the amulet off," Castiel says. "Sam was too."

"What?"

Castiel reaches out and touches the amulet, runs his thumb over it gently. "When I held this...it was muted, but I could feel Sam's distress. It's still there," he says, and something in Dean grieves for that, "but it's much less now. He's more content. So are you."

Dean swallows dryly. "And?"

"I'm not certain." Castiel drops the amulet; it _thumps_ lightly against Dean's chest. "But I think...given enough time in this state, he could heal."

_Time to heal_, Crowley said.

"How long...?" Dean can't dare to hope.

"I don't know," Castiel replies. "A very long time. A lifetime, maybe. He would have to stay with you, in close proximity. But he would heal."

"But we don't _have_ a lifetime," Dean says. "Sam's ready to bust out of there _now_, and when he does the first thing he'll do is go Fatal Attraction on Bobby. He's lost it, Cas."

"I know," Castiel says quietly. "But perhaps—Dean, where did you get this?"

"The amulet?" Dean glances down. "Sam gave it to me, for Christmas. I was—uh, maybe twelve or thirteen. Why?"

"Where did Sam get it?" Castiel presses.

"Ah..." Dean racks his memory. "He said Bobby gave it to him. To give to Dad," he adds quietly. And it had been passed to Dean instead—the first of many times Sam would reject his father in favor of his brother.

"And Bobby?" Castiel asks, when Dean falls silent.

"Hell if I know. Pretty sure Bobby doesn't know where half the crap in his basement came from himself."

"You should find out."

"Why?" Dean asks. "What's this got to do with—?"

But when he turns back to Castiel, the passenger seat is empty.

Dean's cursing when he gets back to the house. Cas healed him up just fine, but there's still a scar over his eye, and he stepped on a rock or something on the way in and now he's bleeding all over again because he cut his damn foot open because he was too damn lazy to put on his shoes before he went outside—

"You get so bored sittin' out in the cold you decided to cut your foot up too?" Bobby asks, when he hears Dean slam the front door.

Dean limps over to the nearest chair and pulls his sock off. He's had worse. "Throw me the kit, wouldja?"

Bobby sets it down on the table next to him, watches Dean quietly for a moment. "You look better. Had a visit from your angel buddy?"

"Oh, yeah," Dean says. "Cas is a real pal." It comes out harder than he means for it to—he's just tired and frustrated and he doesn't know what to _do_. It doesn't take him long to finish up his foot; when he does, he gets up and goes over to the sink to wash his hands. He reaches up, strokes his thumb once over the amulet. "Hey, uh." He turns, dries his hands slowly so he has time to word the question. "This amulet, where'd you get it, anyway? Must be something special if it can hold a soul, right?"

Bobby scratches his chin. "Mmm. Won it in a poker game—'83, '84, sometime around there," he says, waving a hand. "It was awhile back, hard to recall exactly. Why?"

"Cas wanted to know." Dean's looking down at the amulet again; he can't seem to keep his hands off of it.

If Bobby notices, he's kind enough not to mention it. "Hmm." He rubs his chin again, paces slowly over to the counter to pour himself another mug of coffee. Dean waits, taking it upon himself to grab a beer, because he isn't injured anymore and there's no damn reason he shouldn't have had one in the first place.

"Some shady dive in upstate New York...middle of nowhere, only joint for miles," Bobby says finally. "Hunter friendly, a little like the Roadhouse."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Not your type of place."

"Yeah, well." Bobby shrugs. "I was new to the game."

_After Karen died_, Dean thinks, and again he waits.

"First joint like that I ever found...it was cold as hell, and wanted to take a load off, so I got little buzzed, played a little poker. Won some, lost some. Got lucky that game," Bobby adds, chuckling a little. "I wasn't in any shape to be playin' poker, and I still cleaned him out. So he throws that on the pile and tries to get me to go one more time. Normally I wouldn't, but—something about it...he told me it was special, powerful. For protection. So I went one more game, won it—took it home. Never did get around to testin' it. Just put it in a box and forgot about it until Sam came around askin' what he could give John for Christmas."

"And you don't remember the guy...?" Dean asks. "Didn't get a name, nickname, anything?" Even as he asks he knows it's hopeless. It's no good tracking hunters by the names they give in bars or put on credits cards; Dean and Sam have both had enough of them to know that.

"Nah. Like I said—I was young, drunk. Not a lot to remember." Bobby glances at Dean, and Dean jerks his hand down from where it'd been toying with the amulet again. Bobby raises his eyebrows. "I do remember the place, though—it was on the lines a few years after that. Just vanished into thin air—one second it's there, next it ain't. Good thing, I guess—wouldn't have been able to recall it otherwise."

He tells Dean the town and the name of the bar, and Dean thanks him and goes upstairs to call Cas.

_It's sometime between going down on Cas in the Impala and getting zapped into future that Dean finally says out loud what his gut's been screaming at him this whole time: he misses Sam. They're holed up for the night in another old house, and Dean's made the mistake of drinking one of the beers he had in the cooler, and once he starts he doesn't stop. Ever since Hell he's been drinking more than usual, but he at least tries not to go to far, tries not to get completely hammered. Tonight, though, he can't care. He's had this urge to just _talk_ for awhile now, because it's getting to be too much too fast, and he sure as hell can't do it sober._

_Castiel is easy to talk to. He listens well and doesn't judge. Doesn't even reply most of the time, which Dean is grateful for. Dean's spent too much time bottling things up and now he can't anymore, not now that Sam started sneaking out every night and got himself addicted to demon blood and set the freaking _devil_ loose, and Castiel is—there. With Dean. Helping him. And so Dean talks._

_He admits to missing Sam. A lot. He admits to feeling like a failure, he admits he doesn't know what the hell he's doing. And then somehow he winds up admitting he's been sleeping with his brother on and off since Sam was seventeen, that Cas isn't the only person who lost his virginity in the Impala._

_"I thought as much," Castiel says after a while. He doesn't sound judgemental, even though Dean's pretty sure that's another one-way ticket to the Pit for like three different reasons. No, Cas just sounds—sad. "The two of you have a bond I've rarely seen in humans. It's unbreakable. Even by Heaven." There's bitterness and longing and so much more in his tone, but Dean can't hear it. Doesn't want to hear it._

_He's staring out the window, kind of distantly appalled at himself. He's too drunk to care right at the moment—about his secrets or about Cas. "Oh, yeah," he drawls, all anger and sarcasm. "Me'n Sam, real fuckin' pals these days."_

_Dean takes a long drink, wipes his face. "He's just—I dunno...I mean, when Dad had Yellow Eyes in him, _he_ threw him off, when it came down to me gettin' killed. And Bobby—Bobby fuckin' _shanked_ himself, when it was me or him. But back when...when Sam had Meg in him, he just let her...he just let her, Cas. Now it's Ruby an' demon blood, evil over family every goddamn time. Maybe he never cared about me. But hey, what the hell do I know, I only raised the guy. Not that it matters if he turns out to be a freaky blood-suckin' monster—"_

_"You don't mean that," Cas says gently. "Sam's not entirely to blame for his actions. He was being manipulated by forces much more powerful than he is."_

_"Says you," Dean sneers, and he takes another drink._

_There's a long silence, and Castiel finally gets up, goes over to Dean and and takes his chin in his hand. His grip is strong, certain, and Dean's forced to meet his eyes._

_"You'll find your brother again," he says. "You and Sam—" But his voice catches, and he stops. His hand moves up to Dean's temple. "Rest," he says, and there's definite sadness there now._

_Dean wants to say something, but he's asleep before he can get the words out, and the next morning, he can barely remember the conversation at all._

"We've gotta stop meeting like this," Dean jokes. He's lying on his side, half asleep. He prayed to Cas for nearly half an hour before giving up and nodding off, but right as he closed his eyes he felt the mattress dip under weight that wasn't his own. Sure enough, when he turns and looks over his shoulder, it's Castiel. "Everyone else will get jealous."

Cas heaves a long-suffering sigh. "You were the one who asked for _me_."

"Yeah, and you could've come a little sooner," Dean complains, sitting up and stretching a little. Castiel's closer to him now than he was in the Impala, but there's really no room on the bed to shift away and Castiel's sitting on the blankets, so he's sort of pinned. "What's the hold-up?"

"You're not my only obligation." Castiel still sounds annoyed. "If you must know, I was researching something. Tell me what you found out."

Dean lets out a slow breath, hand coming up to find the amulet again. "Don't know why it matters, but Bobby says he got this at some bar in New York, a long time ago. Won it in a poker game."

Cas is quiet for a moment, his eyes falling to the amulet. Dean doesn't take his hand away. "I thought as much."

"You _thought_ as much?"

"Mm."

Cas looks a little distracted, and Dean almost wants to hit him. "_Cas._"

"I'm sorry." Cas looks up, meets Dean's eyes, and it'll never stop surprising him, how intense that stare can get. "Anything else? When was this poker game, what city was this bar in—?"

"Town called North Hartland," Dean answers. "The bar was just called 'Eddie's'. Sounded like real classy joint. Can't exactly go on a field trip, though—it's gone, vanished."

"It's of no consequence," Castiel says after a moment. Then: "Dean, I need to know something. You threw this away."

Dean grips the amulet tight. _Never again_, he thinks. "Yeah."

"What happened to it after that?"

"What the hell _difference_ does it make?" Dean asks. "It's here now, why do you care?"

"It makes a difference," Castiel insists, meeting Dean eyes. "Do you know what happened to it or not?"

For a moment Dean considers not answering, not saying one damn word until Cas tells him what this is _about_, but Cas holds his gaze steadily until the anger passes. He knows what it's about: Sam's soul. He can't hold out for more information when there are lives on the line, especially _Sam's_ life; all those years with Dad taught him that much.

He trusts Cas, after all.

"Bobby says Sam kept it," he says finally, and he's the first to look away. "Hid it somewhere before he took the swan dive."

"Do you know where?"

"No."

"Find out."

That's a classic order-and-vanish if Dean's ever heard one, and his hand finds Castiel's shoulder before he can go. "_Wait_."

Castiel meets his eyes. There's a long, tense silence, and Dean thinks he might just vanish anyway. It wouldn't be the first time. But: "I have matters to attend to," he says finally, tone as gentle as Dean's ever heard it. He pulls away from Dean but doesn't leave. "I'm—I don't want to give you hope and then take it away. I need to make sure of a few things first."

Cas doesn't want him to start holding his breath for nothing. Cas wants to spare his feelings, if he can. Cas is taking time off from _war_, just to try and fix Sam's soul.

Cas cares, even if he doesn't say as much.

"Thank you," Dean sighs, and slumps back against the headboard. Then Castiel's gone.

The panic room reminds Dean a little of Hell. Not enough to set him off or anything, but it's definitely not his favorite place in the world. The restraints are the most familiar; he was always held down in Hell, when there was enough of him left to hold. Hell burns, and the panic room freezes, but they both give him nightmares. He's not sure what's worse to remember; the demons feeding him his intestines one sticky inch at a time or listening to Sam's screaming when he was coming down off of Ruby's blood.

It's cold as shit. The floor is gritty under his boots, and he wants to leave. But he's gotta do it, and if he's gonna do it, it might as well be quick. The amulet helps; it feels warm and reassuring against his heart, hidden under his shirt where Sam—or Sam's body—can't see.

"I'm guessing you aren't here to turn me loose," Sam says, when Dean walks in and closes the door behind him.

"Not exactly." Dean knows, he _knows_ this isn't his brother, but his heart still twists to see Sam chained up here in the panic room again. It reminds him of the worst times between them, the times he thought they'd finally put behind them. He tries to keep the emotion off of his face; it won't do him any good in here. "I need to know what you did with the amulet."

"What amulet?" Sam asks.

Dean leans against the wall. "You're a lousy liar. _My_ amulet, Sam. The one you fished out of the trash. You hid it before you jumped, and I need to know where it is."

"Don't ask me."

"I'm asking."

"Well, I'm not telling," Sam says bluntly. "I don't know what your plan is, but I don't want my soul back. Giving it back's not gonna help me, Dean. I'll be _lucky_ if it kills me."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Dean mutters. "Look, just tell me—"

"No," Sam says. "What are you gonna do, man, torture it out of me?"

Dean looks away. He knows things he wishes he could forget, knows a hundred ways to make Sam crack in under an hour. But there's no way he's doing that again. Not to anyone, not _ever_, especially not to Sam. Even if Sam's not in there.

"So no, then," Sam says, eyebrows raised. "You're not willing to hurt this body, but you still wanna shove my soul back in it?"

"Yes!" Dean slams his fist against the wall. "You tried to _kill Bobby_. And the minute we let you go you'll just do it again. You're not _right_, Sam."

"And you really think it'll be better after you give me my soul?" Sam smiles in this derisive way that's too fucking close to how the devil looked when he was riding around in Sam's skin, and it's all Dean can do to keep his eyes on him. "You've been to Hell. You know what it's like. My soul was with _Lucifer_." Sam sits up again, narrows his eyes at Dean. "I was only down there for a week or two before Crowley brought my body back, and I saw enough. What they _did_ to me—" And Sam keeps going, says things Dean never wanted to hear from his brother's mouth. Says things that are scarily familiar and things that make him sick and he finally has to leave the room, slamming the door hard behind him.

"What the hell happened?" Bobby asks, alarmed.

"_Nothing_," Dean snaps, and he goes outside and rubs his thumb over the amulet again and again and tries not to throw up.

Sam was trying to change his mind. He knows that. But he's just made Dean that much more determined to find a way to help him. That man downstairs is _not_ his brother. The amulet in his hand—that's what makes Sam who he is. And Dean now knows all too well now what Sam has suffered through.

So Dean is going to fix him.

"Cas."

Dean's voice sounds a little weak, even to his own ears, and he's shivering from the cold, the wind cutting right through every layer he's wearing. The only warmth he can feel is where the amulet rests against his skin, under both shirts and his leather jacket. He folds his arms tightly, looks around. "_Cas_," he tries again.

There's a quiet flutter behind him and his shoulders sink in relief.

"Did Sam tell you where it is?"

"No." Dean draws a slow breath. "He, uh—tried to talk me out of the whole deal. But he's not gonna tell us where put it. " The amulet's with him, now; he's acutely aware of it, of its constant presence. "You feel like filling me in yet?"

Dean finally turns around. Cas is leaning against an old oak tree, his arms folded. The leaves have all fallen off of this one; they're swirling around Dean's feet in the wind. Castiel's face is half hidden in the shadows; Dean has to take a step forward to really see him.

"I suppose we'll have time to locate its whereabouts later," Castiel mutters, almost to himself.

"It's _right here_, Cas," Dean says slowly.

"Right." Castiel pushes away from the tree and strides up to Dean, placing both hands on his shoulders. "Come with me."

Dean's a little surprised at the sudden contact, but he's grateful for the warmth. "Where?" he asks.

"New York," Castiel says. "Close your eyes."

_Castiel has never known pain quite like this._

_Now that Castiel's falling, he's become accustomed to human pain, which is in some ways worse; disappointment and heartache, and the feeling he got after he'd had too much to drink. But he remembers the pain that angels feel, too; he has watched bullets and blades pass through his skin and thought nothing of it, felt his brothers' swords turned against him, and bled. He has been torn atom from atom and scattered across the universe. But that pain always sent him quickly into oblivion—this is unceasing._

_A year ago, Castiel would have had no trouble dispatching the thing wearing Leah Gideon's face, powerful though it was. But his grace is leaving him and his abilities are pitifully limited now: one little spell in Enochian had completely crippled him. What is left of his grace is writhing, twisting up in agony inside him, and he can't seem to find unconsciousness and the relief it offers._

_He is only dimly aware of being transported back to the motel room, and even less aware of a short exchange between Sam and Dean before Dean walks out the door. The pain is all he can focus on, as much as he wishes otherwise. He's curled up on a cheap bed that smells of dust and alcohol, eyes squeezed shut against the world as if that can block out what he's feeling._

_Gradually, the agony lessens, and he's able to perceive something besides the burning under his skin._

_"...Castiel. Cas, man, come on."_

Sam_, Castiel thinks hazily, and forces his eyes open._

_"Thank God," Sam says weakly. "Or—whoever. Are you okay?" He pauses. "Stupid question, I guess."_

_"Somewhat," Cas answers. "I believe I'll recover." He grits his teeth and moves to sit up, but the pain flares up again, bright and hot, every nerve on fire._

_"Hey—hey, take it easy." Castiel feels strong hands pushing his shoulders back down to the bed. "Don't overdo it, man. You had me worried."_

_"Apologies," Cas says shortly, and closes his eyes. "Sam. You need to find Dean. If he has proven himself a servant of God, it's likely that he's planning to say yes to Michael."_

_"I know." Sam's voice catches briefly. "He's gone. He—he took the car. He's in Cicero, Indiana."_

_Castiel was certain that he could never feel as hopeless as he felt when he learned his father was indifferent to their suffering. Despite his rebellion, despite his fall, Castiel had put his faith in the Lord, and that faith had been completely broken. Impossibly, this betrayal is worse._

_When his Father abandoned him, he turned to Dean; Dean, who forced him to open his eyes and see right and wrong instead of blindly following orders; Dean, who risked everything he had even when it was impossible for him to win; Dean, who showed him that humans could love more deeply and fight more fiercely than even God's strongest warriors. Castiel gave _everything_ for Dean Winchester and his cause._

_And Dean is saying yes._

_"We have to stop him." Castiel attempts to sit up again._

_"Hey, calm down," Sam says, and this time his hands are behind Castiel's shoulders, helping him up. "We'll find him. He's obviously not thinking too clearly."_

_The pain is fading, and Castiel has an easier time staying upright with Sam helping him. "You're worried?" he guesses._

_"Yeah," Sam admits._

_"I thought you'd be angry." _I am.

_"Nah." Sam smiles weakly. "Dean's, uh—he's upset. People do stupid shit when that happens, you know? He just never—never lets it go, so when he..." Sam runs a hand down over his face; there's a moment before he continues. "But you're right. He shouldn't be alone."_

_"You give him too much credit." Castiel gets carefully to his feet, Sam's hands on him the entire time. Sam is strong, for a human. "He can still say yes to Michael if we're there."_

_"Yeah, I know," says Sam. "But he won't."_

When Dean opens his eyes, it's snowing.

If it was cold at Bobby's, it's absolutely freezing here. They're standing knee-deep in icy slush next to a two-lane highway, and Dean swears when an old truck drives past them and throws more of the stuff up to their faces. His feet are already going numb.

"What the hell, Cas?" Dean gasps, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. "I thought you were taking us to New York, not the freakin' icecaps." But Cas is shivering, looks about as wet and miserable as Dean feels, so he tries to ease up. "Where are we, exactly?"

"North Hartland," Castiel answers. "This way." He leads them toward a run-down building in the distance, one Dean can barely see through the snow. He hopes it has heat.

When they get a little closer, Dean can make out the distant strains of laughter and a staticky jukebox playing Billy Joel. _A bar_, he thinks, and asks, "What the hell are we doing here? Didn't you get enough at the first liquor store?"

"Stay close," Castiel orders. "I'm not sure where he is exactly—"

"For God's sake, _who_?" Dean demands, and stops.

"There," Cas says.

There's a rickety old table in the center of the room, a few heavy-looking trucker types all smoking or drinking something, playing poker with cracked plastic chips. When Dean first met Bobby as a child, his hair had been grey, and seeing him this young is a bit of a shock. He'd always kind of figured Bobby for being a brunet, but his hair is dirty blond, still on his head and not enough on his face. It's unmistakable, though; that's Bobby. It's just not _now_ Bobby.

_Time to heal_, Dean thinks again, and yeah, of course—angels can bend time. They have all the time in the world.

"This is crazy." Dean steals one glance at Bobby's younger self and pulls Cas back, to an empty table in the corner where they can sit and talk. "All right, when are we?" he demands.

"November 2nd, 1983."

Dean's breath catches in his throat. "Seriously, Cas?" He looks around; his eyes find a clock above the bar. It's just a few minutes past ten.

His mother died less than an hour ago. Somewhere in Lawrence, his dad is holed up with him and Sam in the first of a million seedy motels, already vowing revenge.

"I apologize, Dean. I had hoped it would be a different date." Castiel's voice is low; it's difficult to hear him over the noise of the bar. "When I left earlier, I was—tracking Bobby. I had to determine exactly when he came here."

"But Cas, why are we _here_?" Dean asks desperately. "Let's go to Kansas, jump back another hour or two and nip this whole thing in the bud—"

"We can't," Castiel says softly. "I'm so sorry. I wish...you can't change the past, Dean. You can't change destiny. You can only alter the details."

"Then what the hell are we even doing here, huh?" Dean asks tightly. "Bringing me back three states away and an hour too late—" The back of his throat burns and he clenches his fists hard enough to break the skin because he needs the pain, needs anything but to be thinking about this.

"It's _Sam_," Castiel says. "I can't change what's happened, but if I can heal him, if _we_ can heal him, Dean...he _deserves_—"

Castiel's visibly upset, and it touches something in Dean, deeply. "Okay." He lays a hand on Castiel's arm. "Okay. What do we do?"

"You have the amulet," Castiel says, voice drained. "You play a game of poker. You lose. You bet the amulet. Lose again."

"You're kidding," Dean whispers. Comprehension comes all at once. Bobby didn't win the amulet from a stranger; he won it from _Dean_.

Dean reaches up to grasp the amulet, squeeze it tightly. He can feel the horns slice open his palm, worries about the blood dirtying the amulet, but he just can't let go. He's trying his best to hold it together in this bar full of tough guys, but it's hard. He sees why Cas didn't want to tell him, now. Just in case there was no hope.

"I don't know about this, Cas." Dean's shaking, just a little. "It's—it's _1983_." God. "Sam didn't give me this until he was—shit, eight or nine...I can't. I can't leave him alone for that long."

"You won't be," Cas assures him. "I don't age, Dean. I've been gone for months just in these past two days. I can stay with him until he passes into your hands."

Dean gets stuck on that detail, though. "Months—? What the hell have you been doing?"

"Starting gossip," Castiel mutters. "About an amulet that burns hot in God's presence. All souls do, of course. Seeing an angel may burn out a human's eyes, but for a human to behold the face of God—well."

Dean's silent for a moment, putting things together, trying to figure out if this is really the best option. It's hard to think; the bar reeks and the music's too loud, even as out of the way as they are. "But—Sam wouldn't tell me where he hid it," Dean protests. "We'll never find it. I can't just leave him—"

"I've been doing research," Castiel says. "Sam came up with the idea of overtaking Lucifer a shortly before he actually jumped. I can take you back to the present, then come back and follow him, see where he hides it. But I can't do it if the amulet never reaches him in the first place. That's where you come in. We know the amulet's history; we just have to go about making that a reality."

Dean's silent for a long time, head in his hands. Then: "Yeah," he manages finally. "Yeah, I can throw a game of poker." A smile tugs at his lips. "Never could beat Bobby anyway."

Getting in on the poker game is easy. Making sure Bobby wins every hand is even easier. They've got their own personal angel standing in the corner, after all. And hustling comes almost as natural as breathing to Dean; throwing the poker game is no problem.

The hard part is taking off the amulet and letting it fall on the table.

He throws that game, too, but his eyes stay on it the entire time. He's leaving it—leaving _Sam_—here, in this shady bar with water stains on the ceiling and cockroaches hiding in the corners. It screams against every instinct he has.

"It's all right," Castiel says quietly, after the game's over.

Dean's standing a short distance away, watching Bobby collect his winnings. There's a part of him that still wants to go up to Bobby and take it _back_—now that he knows what it is, he can't bear the thought of not being the one to protect it. "It's not." Dean almost chokes on the words.

"I'll watch him. You have my word." Cas touches Dean's shoulder. "I need to return you to the present."

"You come and get me before you go back," Dean says. "Before you—follow Sam. I need to see."

"Dean, there's no reason for you to—"

"Promise me," Dean demands raggedly. "I can't—Cas, you brought me to 1983. It can't get any worse, okay? I have to see."

Castiel meets Dean's eyes. There's a long pause, then: "All right." His fingertips brush over Dean's temple. " Are you ready?"

"Yeah," Dean lies, and the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes is the amulet slipping into Bobby's coat pocket.

_Bobby gets home a few days later. He puts the amulet in a box in the back room of his basement and promptly forgets about it. When he leaves, Castiel steps out of the shadows and opens the box. He takes out the amulet and sits on the floor. And he stays there, sitting there quietly in Bobby's basement and holding Sam's soul, and waits._

_"—I want something real special," Sam is saying. "I don't have enough money to buy Dad a present, but..."_

_"I got a few things down here he might like." Bobby looks around a little. Eventually he finds the amulet, dusty and worn from the eight years Castiel's been keeping his vigil, rubbing his thumb over it again and again. It's not in his hands anymore; he put it back in the box for Bobby to find, and even though he knows this it's how it's supposed to be, it's difficult to finally let it go._

_"This is good," Bobby decides. He hands the amulet to Sam, and—_

_"Dad lied to me. I want you to have it."_

_"...you sure?"_

_"I'm sure."_

_Dean unwraps the gift carefully, and when it's open and the amulet is in his hand. It's a long time before he speaks again."Thank you, Sammy," he breathes. "I...I love it."_

_And Castiel sighs with relief from his place outside the motel room's window. Seeing Sam and Dean this young is bittersweet; he's happy to see them before they had to hurt, before Heaven and Hell corrupted them, but he aches with the knowledge of what their future holds. As much as he knows he can't change things, he wishes he could; he's been been wishing it for the past eight years, and he's glad his duty here is finally done. He just wants to go home. Dean, after all, is waiting for him, and Sam has been without his soul long enough._

_There's a quiet flutter of wings, and then—_

_Sam's panting, clutching to Dean tightly, head resting on his shoulder. "Dean," he breathes._

_"Yeah," Dean agrees, and runs a hand up Sam's back. There's fog on the Impala's windows; it's cold outside and they're both naked, but the car is warm and Sam is close to him, and he couldn't feel more at peace than he does now. "You okay?"_

_Sam laughs lightly, laying a kiss on Dean's neck. "More than okay. If I'd known it was gonna be that good I wouldn't have waited this long."_

_Dean laughs a little too, hugs him _hard_._

_"Ow, Dean." Sam struggles, still grinning. "Your necklace is digging into my shoulder, man."_

_"You'll live," Dean says with a grin. Sam's still smiling when Dean's lips cover his again, and—_

_"But don't forget me." Sam's gripping the amulet tight, face pressed against Dean's skin. "Dean, God, just _stay human_, and I'll find a way to get you back. Promise me? Please..."_

_Later, Sam takes the the amulet from around his dead brother's neck and slips it around his own. Sam's already burying Dean; he can't bury this too. The amulet's still wet with Dean's blood; Sam reaches up to wipe it away with his thumb, then—_

_"I'm serious." Sam's toying with the amulet, running his fingers over it, missing Dean so much he can't stand it. "Maybe I shouldn't.."_

_"If you stop, we'll never get to Lilith," Ruby tells him. "Is that what you want?"_

_"Of course not," Sam says. "I just—whenever I...you know, drink some. It feels weird. Hot. I don't like it. What if...what if it's because Dean—?"_

_"Dean's in Hell," Ruby says firmly, as if Sam needs reminding of _that_. "And that's Lilith's fault. Are you going to be a sap or are you going to do something about it?" She gets up and takes a knife from her boot, brings it to her own arm and—_

_Dean's waking up in the dark, dirt raining down on him. He's clawing his way out of his own grave, gasping when he finally sees sunlight for the first time in forty years. He's robbing a gas station and stealing a car. He's standing outside Sam's motel room._

_Dean's hugging Sam and the amulet's pressed between their chests, and—_

_"You probably want this back." Sam pulls it out from under his shirt, puts it in Dean's hand. It's still warm from Sam's body heat. Dean noticed it was missing, but he didn't think Sam actually—_

_He swallows the lump in his throat. "Thanks."_

_"Yeah, don't mention it."_

_Dean slips the amulet back around his neck where it belongs. So far he'd come back to a grave that looked like a nuke hit it and nearly had his eardrums blown out by something he couldn't see, not to mention that Bobby had to cut him with a silver knife before he'd even let Dean near him and Sam'd taken a swing at him when he saw who it was. Putting the on the amulet is a relief; it feels like coming home._

_"Hey Dean? What it was it like?"_

_"What, Hell? I don't know, I...I must have blacked it out." Dean swallows, reaches up to touch the amulet and lies, "I don't remember a damn thing."_

_Later he runs a hand down his face and looks in the mirror and—_

_Sixty-five seals are down, and Dean's trapped in the beautiful room, useless. He'd do anything if he could just talk to Sam just one more time before whatever's about to happen goes down, but there's no way out. All he's got his his phone. He knows the call probably won't go through, but— "Ah, screw it." He opens his phone and dials._

_"This is Sam." His brother's voice comes through the line, and Dean's shoulders sag in relief. He gets one hand around the amulet and holds on tight. "Leave me a message."_

_"Hey, it's me," Dean starts, uncertain. "Uh..." He clears his throat. "Look, I'll just get right to it. I'm still pissed. And I owe you a serious beatdown. But I shouldn't have said what I said." He regrets it already. "You know—I'm not Dad. We're brothers. You know, we're family. And, uh...no matter how bad it gets, that doesn't change." Dean swallows, keeps going: "Sammy, I'm sorry—"_

_But then the voicemail beeps, and he's out of time—_

_"I did come for something," Castiel says. "An amulet; very rare, very powerful. It burns hot in God's presence...it'll help me find him."_

_Bobby makes an angry noise in the back of his throat. "Well, I don't know what you're talking about. I got nothing like that."_

_"I know. You don't." Castiel meets Dean's eyes, then drops his gaze to the amulet._

_"What, this?" Dean asks, uncomfortable._

_"May I borrow it?"_

_"_No_," comes the immediate response, a knee-jerk reaction even after the terrible things Sam's done._

_But Cas insists, and Dean gives, because what choice does he have?_

_"Don't lose it," he orders, reluctantly hands the amulet over, and then—_

_Sam's hand closes around the amulet and pulls it out of the trashcan. Dean doesn't care about it anymore, but he does. He can't help it; this necklace was all he had when Dean was burning away in Hell. And maybe it's still all he has, if Dean is really giving up._

It's not worthless_, he thinks fiercely. _It's not._ He puts it in his pocket so Dean won't see, and—_

_"I want him to have it back, later," Sam's telling Bobby. He runs his thumb over the amulet, trying not to think about where he's going to spend eternity. "It—helped me, when he was gone. So maybe...I dunno. It'll be hard for him," he says, and even though he's going to Hell, that's what worries him most. "So—"_

_Sam is gentle with the amulet, as though it's made of glass. Tomorrow he'll say yes, but today he's saying goodbye._

_The letter goes in first; Sam wrote it when he was half-blind with tears and self-loathing and he's afraid if he looks at it again he won't be able to leave it here. He hopes, one day, Dean will find it. Maybe then, if Sam wins this fight, Dean can forgive Sam for everything he's done, for setting the devil free. It's as much as he can ever hope for; he knows he'll never forgive himself._

_Sam puts the amulet in the safe, twists the knob, and leaves._

Dean opens his eyes and winces, bringing his hand up to shield them. He's back in Bobby's yard, standing right where he was when he left, but the sun's rising now, blinding him. "...Cas?" he tries.

"It's done."

Dean whirls around. Castiel's there, looking the same as he ever does. "Is Sam—?"

"He's fine," Castiel says wearily.

"And you?" Dean asks, taking a step toward him. "How long were you gone?"

"Eight years, roughly," Castiel doesn't answer the first question. "Until Sam gave you the amulet. I spent the majority of the time in Bobby's basement."

It's a little hard to wrap his mind around, that this Cas is eight years older than the one he was just with, that Cas was even willing to do that for them. "Must have gotten bored," Dean tries.

"Occasionally," Castiel says. "I spent much of the time attempting to communicate with Sam. He was...doing better, when I left him." Cas looks up and meets Dean's eyes, confesses without hesitation, "I missed you."

Dean raises his eyebrows, but before he can get a word out Castiel's hugging him.

Dean's almost afraid to say anything, worried he'll snap Cas out of whatever put him in the mood to do that. His arms come up and fold around Cas, squeezing a little.

"Sam missed you as well," Cas murmurs into Dean's neck, breath hot against Dean's skin. "I couldn't—speak with him directly, but..."

Dean lets out a slow breath, rubbing Castiel's back. "Didn't figure you for the huggy type," he says, because it's too hard to think about Sam missing him right now.

"Time doesn't pass more quickly for me just because I've lived longer," Castiel says. "I've changed."

"Yeah," Dean says, and he stands there as long as Cas needs him to. He won't be the first one to let go.

_The first time Castiel sleeps is the night he takes Pestilence's ring, and he dreams. He's been in dreams before, but never his own. The human mind is a strange thing; he's fully convinced what he's dreaming is real until he wakes up, and then he finds he can't recall it at all._

_"We're here, Cas, c'mon."_

_Castiel doesn't move. He's never felt this tired before, not in all of his existence. He's fought battles in Heaven and he's laid siege to Hell, but even then he had his grace, had power to draw on when he felt he couldn't go on. But now his eyes refuse to open and his limbs are impossibly heavy. "Mm," he grunts._

_"All right." A strong arm slips under his, hauls him up out of the car into the cool night air. "You're not sleeping in the car. Trust me, it kills your back."_

_"Sam," Castiel complains._

_"Doesn't help much that you popped half your stitches back there. Why didn't you say anything?" Sam's almost carrying him into the house, and Castiel can't protest. "Look, Cas—humans bleed, and if they bleed too much, they die."_

_"I know that," Castiel snaps, and finally attempts to pull himself away; the stairs are too narrow for them to go up like this. He goes up ahead of Sam, walking slowly; he's absolutely exhausted and everything hurts._

_"Then _tell_ somebody if you're bleeding."_

_When they get to the hallway again, Sam directs Cas to the first empty room and tells him to sit down, disappearing back into the hallway. Cas goes because he's too tired to stand, not because he wants to obey Sam. "What are you doing?"_

_"First aid kit," Sam says, coming back in and closing the door. "Lay down, it'll be easier. And take your shirt off, I need to see where you're bleeding from."_

_Castiel undresses first, struck briefly by the memory of Dean slipping his coat off his shoulders in the Impala. His chest is wrapped in bandages completely, hiding the banishing sigil that's still carved into his skin, and he's got cuts all over his shoulders from where he landed headfirst in the shrimping boat. He was stitched up at the hospital, of course, but Sam's right; during the day's activities he strained himself and broke the string, and several of the cuts are open again._

_"Hey, wait," Sam says, before Castiel can lay down. "I need to change those. Unless you'd prefer to do it."_

_"I don't really know how," Castiel confesses. "I only had one way of tending to injuries."_

_Sam takes a slow breath. "All right," he says, and gets to work._

_It's silent, at first; Castiel's lost in his thoughts and he supposes Sam must be as well. Sam seems sad, resigned, and Castiel's too weary to try and figure out why. Sam's always been a bit of a mystery to him._

_"This'll probably scar," Sam says quietly._

_"It makes no difference," Castiel says, and it really doesn't. "I'm not an angel anymore; the sigil itself no longer affects me."_

_"That was a good thing, you know." Sam is gentle with Castiel's chest, rubbing some kind of cream into his skin that cools the burn of his cuts. "What you did. You've given up a lot for us."_

_"But I did give up." Castiel closes his eyes. Sam's hand would feel nice if he wasn't already in so much pain. "I gave up on Dean. You didn't. I believe that's why he said no. For you. You had faith in him when no one else did...it saved him."_

_"It saved _me_." Sam's winding clean bandages back around Castiel's chest, pulling them tight enough to stay secure but not so tight it hurts. His movements are quick and easy from practice; his arms are long enough to get around Castiel's torso without touching him, a odd kind of not-quite-embrace. "Faith is all I've got at this point," Sam says. "God or not, I have to believe that there's some way to stop him."_

_"Lucifer."_

_"Yes."_

_Castiel winces a little when Sam tugs at the bandages to make sure they won't come off. "I misjudged you, Sam."_

_Sam shrugs. "Lay down," he says now. "We'll try fishing line. Holds much better than that flimsy crap they use at hospitals."_

_Cas obeys, and it's a relief not to have to sit up anymore, not to have to use that strength. It's an old mattress, creaky and full of holes, but at the moment he's sure he's never been more comfortable. He closes his eyes when he feels the pads of Sam's fingers on his skin. The touch feels too intimate to be what it is, and he doesn't like that he's having trouble making the distinction. "Truly," he says, pressing the point because he needs something to talk about, needs to get his mind away from his body._

_"Truly what?"_

_There's a prick when the needle first goes through his skin, and Castiel grits his teeth against the sensation. "You," he says. "When I met you—when I first heard about you—you were just the boy with the demon blood. An abomination. It's..." He takes another quick breath when the needle tugs too hard at his skin. "It's admirable, Sam. For anyone to have faith in these circumstances, but—especially to rise above that."_

_"You been taking too many painkillers?" Sam asks._

_"No." Castiel sighs, opening his eyes. Sam's gaze is on his shoulder, focused and steady. "I just wanted to apologize."_

_Sam chuckles a little. "You don't have to apologize. We owe you a lot. _I_ owe you a lot. I was off making stupid decisions, and...you were there for Dean, when I wasn't. Thank you."_

_Cas is quiet for a moment, feeling uneasy; he closes his eyes again. "Dean told me..."_

_Sam's hands stop moving._

_"Well, everything," Castiel says, because that's more or less true. "But—about the two of you."_

_Sam doesn't reply, but he starts stitching Cas up again._

_Castiel can't see his expression, and he doesn't want to open his eyes. "And," he continues, "I don't—I'd suspected as much for awhile by that point. It doesn't really matter...even to Heaven, I suppose. You are...I believe you'd use the term soulm—"_

_"Dude," says Sam, finally breaking the silence. "Can't you find another word for that?"_

_"Apologies," Castiel says. "I didn't realize it was upsetting."_

_"Yeah, well." Sam finishes the first gash, knots and cuts the fishing line. "We're not—you know. Anymore. We haven't since he got back. So...even if we _were_—what you said. We aren't anymore." There's that odd wistful note to his voice again when he says, "Never will be. Dean doesn't really trust me much these days. I'm glad he has you."_

_Castiel's eyes open in surprise._

_"The backseat, right?"_

_"How did you—"_

_"Lucky guess." Sam's smiling this sad smile that makes Castiel ache and he doesn't know _why_. "Hey, what can I say? He's my brother, I know how he thinks." He pauses as a warm breeze comes through the open window, closes his eyes, and Cas dimly recognizes that he's struggling to keep his composure. "Anyway, uh—I just." Sam swallows, starts working again. "I'm okay with that. With you two. You're good for him. I was...I wasn't there for Dean when he needed me. I'm glad someone else was around to, you know...pick up the pieces."_

_"You're too hard on yourself, Sam. Dean would have said yes if not for you."_

_Sam's hands still again, and he knots and cuts the line on the second cut. "That should hold it," he says. "Just try not to move around too much tonight. There are painkillers in the kit." He stands, leaving the the kit on the bed, within arm's reach. "I've got some stuff to take care of, so...if anybody asks, I'm fine, I'll be back later."_

_"Where are you going?" Castiel is tired, and he can already feel sleep reaching up to smother him again. Human bodies are so weak—they have so many _needs_._

_"I won't be gone long," Sam promises, and he leaves._

_Castiel's tired and hurt and human, so it doesn't occur to him that Sam's errand might have something to do with why he looks so sad. Cas won't understand until later, when he wakes up still sore to hear what Sam's planning to do. Tomorrow, Sam will say yes._

_Today, he's saying goodbye._

Dean offers to let Castiel take five before they go time-hopping again, but Cas is stubborn. "I've waited long enough," he says, exhaustion in his tone, "and so has Sam. I can rest when this is over, Dean. We need to find out where Sam hid the amulet."

"Okay," Dean says. "So—what do we do?"

"I believe Sam left to hide it the night we killed Pestilence," Castiel says. "I could be mistaken, but it's probably best to go back to that day. I don't want to spend anymore time in the recent past than we have to. If we're seen, things could get...complicated." He pauses, shifts his weight a little. "Dean. Are you sure you don't want to stay here? I won't be gone long."

"You're taking me with you," Dean insists. "This is Sam's soul. I'm going."

He touches Castiel's elbow gently. He can't even imagine what it was like, sitting in alone Bobby's basement for that long. Even in Hell, he wasn't alone; there was always some demon whispering in his ear. He figures the isolation must be worse, at least in some ways, and he feels like a bastard now for not protesting when Castiel offered to stay behind. Heaven might be full of dicks, but here's at least one angel that's been watching over them. "You said you've been gone eight years, right?"

"Yes."

"Then don't you want some company?"

Castiel glances at Dean, and something in his expression softens. "Yes, I suppose so." His hand comes up to Dean's temple, and Dean closes his eyes—

But instead of the normal swooping feeling he gets in his stomach when an angel zaps him somewhere, he feels Castiel's hand move back into his hair a little, feels his thumb run over the scar above his eye.

Dean opens his eyes. "Cas?"

"My apologies," Cas says.

Castiel makes as if to pull away, but Dean catches his hand before he can. Dean's always been a tactile person, and he kind of likes Cas touching him like this, though he'd never admit as much. Dean used to do the same thing to Sam; not sexual, just a comforting pat on the back or squeeze of the shoulder. But that was before Hell and the demon blood and Lucifer. It's all done and over with now, of course, especially since Sam came back without his soul. "You're fine," Dean says, and lets go. "We should get goin'."

"Of course." Castiel takes a deep breath, and this time when Dean closes his eyes, they go—

The wind's whispering in the trees when they land in Bobby's yard again, warm spring night a welcome change from the blizzard that had been New York.

"You're too hard on yourself, Sam. Dean would have said yes if not for you."

"What?" Dean asks. It's Castiel's voice, but when he looks over at Castiel, Castiel's looking up at the house. The window of the spare bedroom is open; Bobby likes to feel outside air when the weather's nice enough.

"That should hold it." Sam's voice comes from the window, quiet, just barely carrying down to them. "Just try not to move around too much..."

"This is the night before he jumped?" Dean asks. He wants to stop it—oh _God_, he wants to stop it. The world could just go to Hell and he wouldn't care, not if he could keep Sam safe and whole.

"Yes," Castiel answers quietly. "We have to be careful. I believe you and Bobby are somewhere in the yard right now."

"How are we gonna follow him?" Dean asks. "If he takes the car—"

Castiel holds up a hand and Dean falls quiet.

"...some stuff to take care of," Sam is saying. "If anybody asks, I'm fine, I'll be back later."

"Where are you going?"

"I won't be gone long."

There's the distant sound of a door shutting, and Castiel glances around. "We don't have long. Let's move."

"This thing's a piece of junk," Dean snarls. The car closest by had been a rickety old Daewoo, and it _sucks_. Dean's used to driving with a little more class.

"Do you want me to drive?" Castiel sighs, head against the passenger window. He's restless, Dean can tell; he probably hasn't traveled by car in awhile.

That comment makes Dean pause, glance over at Castiel curiously. "Do you even know _how_ to—shit," he swears, when the Impala starts slowing down. Sam's been driving like a maniac all night, pedal to the metal, and he only slows down when he's about to pull over again. Dean knows better than to think Sam's checking a map; they know the highways on the east coast so well they can go from Maine to Florida without getting lost. Sam knows he's being tailed, and every time he pulls over Dean has to go on ahead and pull over somewhere else, where Sam won't see him as he flies by. It's the same trick they've always used when they follow people; Dean just hopes Sam won't catch on before they get to...wherever it is they're going.

It's not made any easier by the weather. About twenty minutes after they pulled out, it started raining, and a few minutes after that, it started pouring. The windshield wipers on this thing barely work and Dean's having trouble seeing. He knows he's going to leave tire tracks everywhere, too, and he's paranoid that Sam will catch them.

He pulls over the first time he sees enough trees by the side of the road, just plowing off the asphalt without a care in the world for the car. He kills the headlights and waits, and when Sam finally goes past them again he's got to be doing 90 at the least. If Dean didn't already know Sam was going to survive the night, he'd be tempted to bitch him out for driving like this in a freakin' monsoon.

It's a long time and a few more near misses before Sam swerves onto a back road. Dean asks Cas where they are (the guy is a GPS and a clock without even trying) and Cas tells him they're outside Buffalo, New York.

"Dad's lockup," Dean says. "Must be. Figures," he adds softly.

He's right; when Sam finally parks the car it's in the lot of Castle Storage. Dean's heart twists a little when he sees Sam get out of the Impala; he looks tired and a little scared, and God, Dean could always read his face like an open book. He's almost forgotten, these past six months, but Dean knows Sam—his Sam, the real Sam, _Sammy_. "We should follow him."

"No we shouldn't," Castiel says. "We know where the amulet is. We can go back now."

"No," Dean says. "I gotta be sure, Cas."

He doesn't bother locking up the car, just steps out into the pouring rain and stares after his brother. He follows at a distance, slow enough so Sam won't notice; he doesn't have to try so hard to keep him in sight now that he has a better idea of where they're going.

Sam's soaked and shivering as he steps into the elevator, and just as Dean starts worrying how they're going to follow him in something so noisy, Castiel touches his elbow, and then they're inside the lock-up, hidden behind one of the metal shelves. "I'm concealing our presence here," Castiel tells him. "Don't move."

Dean doesn't reply, but he's grateful for the hand still on his elbow. It's only a few seconds before the lock clicks, and Sam works his way slowly around the booby traps to the light switch. The light's weak and it flickers, but once it's flipped on there'd be no missing Dean and Cas without whatever magic Castiel's working.

Sam goes over to the back wall and shifts a few things around. There's a safe hiding behind a couple of curse boxes, and Dean holds his breath and Sam leans down to drag it out, bring it back to the middle of the room. It takes him a few minutes to crack the combination, and when he does there's nothing inside except a spare key to the Impala and a few old credit cards. Sam pockets the key and dumps the rest of it out on the floor, then puts the safe back on a different shelf, higher.

Sam pulls something out of his pocket. Dean thinks, _This is it_, but it's not the amulet; it's a sealed envelope with something on the front. That goes in the safe first. Then—

Sam takes the amulet out from where it's been under his shirt for who knows how long. He squeezes it and drags a hand down over his face. He's careful with the amulet when he finally lets it go, treats it like it could break any second if he's not.

Sam puts the amulet in the safe, twists the knob, and leaves.

_"Look, Dean...um, for the record, I agree with you. About me."_

_Dean doesn't want to have this talk. He doesn't even want to think about having this talk. This is—wrong. Sam shouldn't sacrifice himself, not for anything. That's _Dean's job_. What good is he to anybody if he really lets Sam go through with this?_

_"You think I'm too weak to take on Lucifer, well—so do I."_

_And yet here they are. At least Sam's predictable; it's the end of the world and he still wants them to talk about their feelings._

_"Believe me," Sam says, "I know _exactly_ how screwed up I am. You...Bobby, Cas—I'm the least of any of you."_

_"Ahh, Sam—" _You are not_, he wants to say, but—_

_"It's true," Sam says, "it is. But I'm also all we got. If there was another way...but I don't think there is." He looks down, then back up, meeting Dean's eyes. "There's just...me."_

"Now?" Dean asks, after Sam has left and locked the door behind him.

"No," says Castiel. "Give him a little more time. He needs to rest."

Before Dean can object, Castiel's hand is on his temple again, and the room changes. There's more dust now, and it's even colder than it was before. They're both still soaking wet, but the footprints they left behind when they came in have dried up.

"We're back in the present," Castiel tells him. "Sam should be healed by now," he adds, but he doesn't sound very sure. He walks over to the shelf where the safe still rests, but he doesn't touch it, just looks back at Dean expectantly.

Dean follows him and pulls the safe off the shelf. It's not very big, but it's heavy, and he knows the lock is going to be a bitch. Castiel's quiet while he works. It takes him longer to crack the safe than it took Sam; his hands are shaking. Finally it opens with a quiet _click_. The room is freezing cold, and the metal of the safe is cool to the touch, but when he's finally holding the amulet, it's warm against his skin.

"Sam," Dean breathes. "Sammy." His eyes are squeezed shut and his throat is burning. He wants to cry and he can't because it's not over yet. But he's got it back, he's got Sam's soul, and he's not letting it go again.

Castiel squeezes his shoulder. "May I?" he asks. "I can check—see if..."

Last time Castiel asked him that, the amulet had ended up in the trashcan. But he doesn't hesitate to pass the amulet to Castiel now. Cas has waited eight years for this; he's the only person in the world Dean would trust with Sam's soul besides himself.

Castiel holds the amulet in his palm, rubbing his thumb over it, and Dean wonders how many times he did that in the eight years he spent by himself. He's quiet, and it's almost like torture, waiting for him to say something. His face is blank and his eyes are closed and Dean wants to _know_.

When Castiel looks up, his eyes are bright, and for a single moment Dean's terrified that it hasn't worked, that it's all been for nothing and Sam's still broken. But— "He has been made whole," Cas says, voice shaking. He presses the amulet against his face, almost a reverent gesture.

Dean watches with a kind of terrible relief. The weight lifting off of him is so heavy, he doesn't really know what to do without it. He wants to say thank you, say _something_, but the words won't come. He can only stand there, watching Castiel hold his brother's soul.

Except—

"There was...there was something else." He's reaching inside even as he says it. "A letter." His fingers find the envelope and when he brings it into the light he can see what it says: just _Dean_ on the front in Sam's untidy print. He's careful when he opens the envelope, pulls out the letter. He's not sure he can read this, but there's no way that he can't. Then Castiel's next to him, hand on his shoulder, and he finds it in him to unfold the letter and read. There's no opening, no signature—just words.

_If you're reading this, I said yes._

_I don't know who's going to win tomorrow. If Lucifer did, the world's gone to Hell; if I did, well, I guess I'm in Hell. I figured either way, you'd come back here eventually. That's why I left this here. I know you threw it away, and maybe you still think it's worthless, but when you died, this was all I had of you. It helped. Not nearly enough, but it helped._

_I know I did some pretty dumb stuff while you were gone. I guess it's true what you said, that you always kept me in line. You were in Hell and that was my fault, and the only thing I could think about was killing Lilith. It hurt so much and all I wanted was to get you out, and I couldn't. I guess I thought killing Lilith would make it better, somehow. It doesn't excuse anything, I know that, but I wanted you to know why._

_I know you don't trust me anymore. I tried to get over it, you know? But every time I wound up in bed with somebody else it felt all wrong. Even when I was with Ruby—I mean, you gotta know that was only ever about you. The amulet felt weird every time I drank the demon blood, I ever tell you that? By the time I got my head on straight, figured out what that might mean, you and me...we weren't like that anymore. Eventually I just stopped trying to be with anybody else._

_I know that's not you, though. And I really think Cas will be good for you. I think you'd be good for each other. He's a good guy, Dean, and he's always come through for us. He doesn't know a lot about being human, so you'll have to look out for him until he gets the hang of it, but he won't disappoint you like I did. Let him take care of you, too, okay? Don't do anything stupid. Whatever happens to me tomorrow, please just don't do anything stupid._

_I'm sorry for everything, Dean, all of this crap. It's not your fault, okay? None of it is. You were the one good thing in my life, the only person who never let me down. I'm the one who fucked up. And I can blame Azazel, or the demon blood, or just our own fucked-up lives, but I'm not. I'm the one who started all this. I just hope I'll be the one to finish it._

_I don't know if I can beat the devil, Dean. I'm not like you and Cas and Bobby. But I'm going to try._

_I just hope it's enough._

Dean reaches out blindly, and then the amulet is pressed into his hand, curled up safe in the fist he's pressing against his mouth. Castiel reads the letter and Dean holds tight to Sam's soul; if he lets go, he's going to fall apart.

"We should go back to Bobby's," Cas chokes out when he's done.

Dean lets out what's not quite a laugh and scrubs his eyes on his sleeve. "If we land on Bobby's porch crying like a couple of girls he's just gonna throw holy water at us."

"We're already wet," Castiel says, like that matters, and Dean starts laughing, overwhelmed with a sudden fondness for Cas he can't quite put to words. Dean pulls him into a hard kiss, fingertips on his jaw, arm sneaking around his waist. When he finally moves back, he leaves his hand on Castiel's shoulder. Cas is staring at him like he's lost his mind. Maybe he has.

"Yeah," Dean says finally. "Yeah, okay." He drags his hand down his face, tries to dry it up. "Beam us up, then."

"I don't understand that—"

Dean squeezes his shoulder. "Take us back to _Sam_, Cas," he says, and they're gone before he even has time to close his eyes.

"You can't keep me tied up forever, you know."

"I can gag you if you don't shut your cakehole," Bobby replies flatly.

"Bobby, c'mon, man." For a moment Sam sounds so much like himself that Bobby's gut twists, and he's reminded again of what they've lost. "I've been sitting here all night. I gotta take a leak."

"Boo hoo," Bobby says unsympathetically. He's been giving Sam the benefit of the doubt all day, letting him up to eat and use the bathroom and whatever else business he asked to do. On the third bathroom break, Sam had knocked Bobby's feet out from under him and made a run for it, and if Bobby hadn't cracked him over the head with a vase he'd've never gotten him strapped back onto the damn cot. Bobby doesn't plan to let him up again without backup. "When Dean gets back, you can ask him."

Course, that'd be a lot easier if Dean would answer his goddamn phone. Both Dean's number and Castiel's claimed to be out of service, and if Cas heard Bobby praying, he didn't show it. Even Rufus would be a blessing right now—God knows the idjit owes him a favor or five—but some part of Bobby worries that even that wouldn't be enough to hold Sam if he got loose again.

"So, is Dean still looking for that necklace?" Sam asks keenly.

"Maybe," Bobby says, even though he has no idea what Sam's talking about. "Why? You feel like tellin' us where it is?"

"You feel like letting me go?" Sam smiles, like he's not irritated or angry at all and _oh yeah_, Bobby remembers, _he ain't_. "Bobby, believe me. I know you think you're doing the right thing here, but you're not. Haven't you ever wondered if Dean's not the one to be making important choices? He doesn't exactly have the best track record."

"Look, you ain't yourself," Bobby says. "Dean's tryin' to _fix_ you, boy. You really think he'd give you back your soul if he thought you'd get hurt?"

"Yeah," Sam says, not a bit of hesitation. "He doesn't care about _me_, Bobby. I'm nothing but a monster to him."

Bobby rolls his eyes, gets up to find something to gag Sam with. It's not as easy as it should be; he's got to keep his eyes on Sam at the same time.

"You're trusting the wrong guy," Sam tries.

Maybe some rope would do the trick, but it's in the other room and he doesn't really want to leave. "Can it, Sam."

"No, seriously," Sam says. "You don't know Dean as well as you think. I mean, the things he's _done_."

"Boy, I don't aim to tell you again."

"Not just Hell, either," Sam continues, as if Bobby hasn't spoken. "He's been fucking me since I was a kid. What kind of brother does that? Let me go, man, let's just _talk_ about this, before you let him shove anything else down my throat."

Bobby stops, raises his eyebrows. He's got a clean handkerchief in one pocket, and it's better than nothing, but he doesn't reach for it.

"Didn't know that, huh?" Sam looks smug now, like he knows he's got the upper hand. "So much for protecting little Sammy, right? He got me in the backseat before I was even _legal_."

Bobby heaves a sigh and pulls out the handkerchief. "You were seventeen, idjit," he says, and can't help but take a little pleasure in how shocked Sam looks. "And you ain't tellin' me nothin' I didn't already know. You think I was born yesterday? I figured it out before _Dean_ did, and I'm the one who covered for your sorry asses when your daddy started askin' questions."

"Wait," Sam starts, but Bobby shoves the handkerchief in his mouth before he can get going again. He's looking for something to tie around Sam's head, keep the gag in place, but—

There's a loud _thud_ from upstairs; too loud to ignore.

"Balls!" Bobby glances back at Sam. "You move from there again and next time you won't have kneecaps to move around with, you hear?" All he gets is Sam rolling his eyes at him and he sighs, swears under his breath. That'll have to do, he decides. Then he takes the safety off his pistol, and heads upstairs.

Dean and his guardian angel are standing in Bobby's kitchen.

More accurately, Castiel's standing, and Dean's slumped over in his arms. They're both soaking wet; there's already a puddle on the floor.

"What the hell happened to you two?" Bobby asks, and puts his pistol away.

"Technically, nothing," Castiel says. "I've been bending time. It's very complex—"

"Cas, what did you do," Dean mumbles, from Castiel's side. "My legs feel like jello, man."

Castiel frowns. "Too many jumps, I think. I've never transported a human so many times so close together. It should pass soon."

"Dude, there's like...two of you," Dean says, squinting up at Castiel.

Castiel doesn't answer him. "We have Sam's soul," he tells Bobby. "It's intact."

"Great," Bobby says. "Then let's get it back in him already, before he tries to Houdini his way out of there again."

"What?" Dean pulls away from Castiel, stumbling a little on his way to the stairs. "You left him alone?" He's vanished into the basement before Bobby can answer. There's a crash and a yell, and by the time Bobby gets down to the panic room it's too late. Sam's free, and he's got Dean's arms twisted around behind him and a knife at his throat.

"I'm sorry, Dean, I am." Sam's panting; at least Dean didn't go quietly. "But I can't let you do this to me. I'm not just gonna roll over and die." His gaze moves to Bobby and Castiel. "You let me leave, or I swear to God I'll kill him right here." He presses the knife a little harder to Dean's throat, and a a trickle of blood runs down to Dean's shirt. Dean's not likely to get out of it on his own; he still looks punch drunk from whatever angel mojo Cas worked on him.

Bobby's ready to put his pistol on the ground. If Sam runs away they might be able to catch him, but Dean's only gonna come back to life so many times before the game's up. "Sam," he starts.

"No," Sam says, "no. You drop your gun, get the hell out of my way."

"Sam," Castiel says from next to Bobby, and his voice is much harder, less cautious. "Release him. Now."

Sam takes a step back, jerks Dean with him. "Forget it."

The room's temperature plummets and thunder rolls outside even though it's been clear all night. "Last chance," Castiel warns, and the lights flicker and go out.

Sam doesn't speak, but he doesn't let Dean go either.

Castiel raises a hand in Sam's direction. When he speaks, his voice is deep, ringing, and the lightning that flashes outside comes down through the grate above them, throws shadows of wings on the floor. "_Chiso noan unilag zirenaiad_," Castiel commands, and Sam promptly falls to the ground.

"Sammy?" Dean sounds terrified, isn't even worrying about his own cut; he's pressing his fingers to Sam's neck, probably checking for a pulse. "What did you _do_, Cas?"

"I told him to be silent and obey," Castiel says. The lights have come back on; the room's slowly returning to the normal temperature. "He's fine, Dean. Merely unconscious." And he helps Dean move Sam to the cot.

"Either of you wanna fill me in?" Bobby asks when they're done, because really, enough is enough.

"It's time to return Sam's soul," Castiel says.

"But I was havin' so much fun with the Punch and Judy reruns."

Castiel just stares at him.

Bobby sighs. He's getting too old for this shit. "Better tell me what happened," he says, going over to lock Sam back in the handcuffs. "He'll be up and at 'em again soon enough."

"You didn't need to lock him up."

"Dean," Bobby starts, but Dean won't hear him. He's got Sam's soul now; he can _fix_ this.

Dean slips the amulet off of his neck, holds it in his hand. He's by the cot, already undoing Sam's restraints. "It's okay, Bobby. He's okay." He looks up at Cas, who's watching from the door with no expression. "Now?" he asks.

Castiel nods once. "Yes. We've done all we can for him. Best to do it while he won't fight."

Dean nods too, feeling a little better with that reassurance, but still a little terrified because _Once you put it in him, there's no taking it back._

Dean takes a deep breath, puts the amulet around Sam's neck.

Nothing happens. Dean waits, breath held, fists clenched, and he wants so badly to be able to touch the amulet, take comfort in it. But it's on Sam now and the last thing he wants is to fuck this up. He keeps his hands off. He _waits_.

Sam opens his eyes and starts screaming.

Every single thought Dean had about _hands off_ flies out of his brain. "Sam—" He's never heard Sam scream like this, not during his nightmares or visions, not even during his withdrawals. Sam's thrashing around like he's dying _or worse_ and Dean gets one hand around each wrist, trying to still him— "Sam, come on, come on—"

And then, just like that, Sam goes limp and still again and Dean's heart all but stops.

He's got his fingers back on Sam's neck, digging in, feeling—he feels Sam's pulse, then Castiel's hand on his shoulder, and Cas is saying in his ear, "It's okay, Dean, he's okay."

It's a long moment before he lets Castiel pull him back, and if either Cas or Bobby notice the wetness on his face they don't let on, and Dean's grateful. "What's—" His voice catches; he has to stop and take a second before he can try again. "What's wrong with him?" he asks, finally.

"He's fine," Castiel says. His hand is still on Dean's shoulder, and Dean's glad; without the amulet to hold onto he feels like Castiel's the only thing holding him together. "His body hasn't slept in a very long time, Dean. He's...catching up. That's all."

"He screamed." Dean wants Castiel to have an answer for that too, because he's terrified he fucked up somehow and Sam's broken forever. "Why did he scream?"

"The soul and body only separate naturally at death. They aren't meant to be reunited." Castiel's eyes are on Sam. "The process was most likely painful. But he's all right now, Dean. He's just asleep."

"Okay," Dean says, trying to fight down his panic. He's seriously losing his shit here, and he really doesn't like doing that in front of other people. "Okay."

There's a long silence. Everybody's looking at Sam. He's definitely out of it, but there's something different about his face; it's not the same blank look he gets when he's unconscious. His eyes are closed and his expression's relaxed, but there's some sort of contentment there that Dean hasn't seen in a long time. He really is just sleeping.

"So now what?" Bobby asks, breaking the quiet.

"Now we wait," Castiel says.

Sam doesn't wake up the next morning.

He doesn't wake up in the afternoon, or that night. He sleeps through next day and the one after that—and the longer he sleeps, the more Dean worries. He refuses to leave the panic room until Cas zaps Sam to one of the spare bedrooms upstairs, and then Dean just parks himself there. He can tell he's driving Bobby crazy—only leaves his chair to get food, or shower every once in a while, but only if he knows Cas is there looking out for Sam, ready to get Dean the moment he wakes up. And since he doesn't need sleep or food, that's pretty much all Cas does. It makes Dean think of eight years in Bobby's basement spent alone, and he does his best not to leave Cas for too long.

Dean and Castiel talk. Cas usually isn't much of a talker, but eventually Dean gets him started on the thousands of years he lived before he met humans, gets stories about angels learning to fly, learning to fight. There's a few times Cas puts him to sleep just talking. Dean wonders if he ever spoke to Sam's soul this way, and he hopes Sam can hear him now.

Right now Castiel's in the middle of some long explanation of how angelic grace works and Dean's only half-listening from the other bed. Sam's breathing is slow, even; the sound is proof that's Sam's alive, and it's comforting.

"...everything an angel does requires grace. It replenishes itself, over time, but to attempt to use more than you have...it's dangerous."

Castiel's expression where he sits in a chair by the window is just barely readable; there's a little light coming from the flickering streetlight outside. "So—that's what happened when you went human?" Dean props himself up on one elbow. "You used it all up?"

"I was cut of from Heaven's power, yes," Castiel says. "That is—my grace was no longer unlimited. Everything I did took away a little more. I thought banishing myself would be the last of it, but...it seems I had enough left to heal my vessel. It's not often an angel becomes human."

Dean's thinking about all those jumps, all those times Cas used a little angel mojo to help them out, about the time Cas took them to the past despite insisting he didn't have the power. And every time it was a little more of himself he was giving away. "You spent the whole time waiting to die."

"Yes."

That Cas was willing to do that for _them_, that he even bothered to stick around after he got his groove back—

"I'm...grateful," Castiel says finally. "That it didn't happen that way. So I could help you recover Sam's soul, and—so I could apologize to you."

Dean falls back on the bed. "Cas, c'mon. I'm the one who should be saying that. You _died_ for me."

"All the same." Castiel leans forward. "And...there's something else, Dean. I didn't realize until very recently, but...in the interest of full disclosure—well, I should have said something earlier." He hesitates. "When Sam had you in the panic room. I felt it...tugging at me, if you will. My grace."

Dean turns his head. "Why?"

"When we first realized Sam's soul was missing—when I searched his body for it..." Castiel sounds uneasy. "It seems I—I left some behind."

"Some _grace_?"

"Yes. The search required more than usual, and I...it wasn't intentional," Castiel assures Dean. "And it won't hurt him. There's not even very much left; It's likely most of it was used to purge the demon blood from his rest...he'll get sick less often, heal from his injuries faster. Even still—he's only human. It's more than he'll use in a lifetime."

Dean's smiling a little. "Figures," he says.

"What?"

"Well, not only did you burn your hand onto my shoulder, you got angel juice all over Sam's insides. And that's leaving out all that shit about soulmates." Dean's smiling, though. He never thought he'd be able to get that word out without choking on it. "We're one hell of a mess, huh?"

"Yes," Castiel sighs. "I suppose we are."

The fourth day after Sam gets his soul back, Bobby gets a call from Rufus. "Probably a ghost," he says, as he packs his things. "_Maybe_ banshee, I dunno."

"Since when do you drive across the country for a salt and burn?" Dean asks him. He's itching to get back upstairs, back to Sam and Cas. "Isn't that kind of overkill?"

"You boys are givin' me cabin fever," Bobby grumbles. "I'm tired of tryin' to make sure you eat regular and see sunlight once in awhile. I need a break."

"I'm just worried about him." Dean's eyes move from bobby to the wall behind him. "I'll go outside when he's up to coming with me."

Bobby sighs, puts his things down. "Look, son...we don't know how long Sam's gonna sleep. It could be days, weeks, _months_—he's got a lot to catch up on. Now you know you're all welcome to stay as long as you like, but there ain't no reason to live upstairs in that little room 'til he comes around." Before Dean can protest, he continues, "I know, Dean. I know it's Sam. I know what he is to you."

Dean looks away. Bobby's turned a blind eye to them, for the most part, except for one very awkward conversation before Sam left for Stanford. The two of them were getting a little too obvious, and John was getting wise; all Bobby did was pass on a warning. That lasted five minutes, and they haven't talked about it since. "What's your point?"

"Just don't forget to take care of yourself, too." Bobby goes back to packing his things. "Now go on back up to your brother. I can feel you twitching from here."

The fifth day after Sam gets his soul back, Bobby leaves. It pours all day. "It reminds me of the Deluge," Castiel says. "No thunder or wind; just water."

"The Deluge?" Dean asks.

"Noah's Ark," Castiel clarifies.

Dean's struck by the enormity of that, of how many years Cas has had to be around to see it and tell Dean about it now. "How old are you, anyway?"

Castiel shrugs and tells Dean he can't remember.

The sixth day after Sam gets his soul back, Dean decides to give him a shave.

Sam's growing a beard, and he's always hated even the smallest bit of stubble. It's a little odd, maybe, but Dean doesn't want him to wake up feeling like a caveman. "I mean, you said you didn't know how long he'd be asleep, right?" Dean asks. "He could wake up tomorrow for all we know."

"I wouldn't count on it," Castiel says. "He could remain asleep for a very long time."

"Either way, I'm not letting him grow a beard," Dean says firmly. He shaves Sam without nicking him once, remembering the hundred other times he's had to do this when Sam was injured, remembering teaching Sam how to do this when he was just a kid.

The seventh day after Sam gets his soul back, he wakes up.

It's not gradual or slow like Dean thought it would be, like it's been a thousand times when they were waking up in the same bed together. One minute Dean's leaning over him, letting his fingers brush over the amulet on Sam's chest, and the next Sam's eyes have flown open and he sits bolt upright like he's waking up from a nightmare. The first thing his hands find are Dean's shoulders, and only then does he stop and actually look around, take in where he is.

"Dean?" he asks.

Sam's hands are sliding up to his neck and face, pulling him in, and they kiss like it's the most natural thing in the world, like they both had it planned out all this time. Dean hasn't kissed Sam in years, and he's surprised at how familiar it feels, how natural it is for his thumbs to come under Sam's eyes and brush away the wetness he finds there.

"I was with you," Sam says, when Dean pulls away. "I was with you. And Castiel," he adds, "is he—?"

And then Dean remembers that yes, Cas is still in the room. Dean turns to Cas, sitting by the window, and he catches the hurt and surprise before Castiel's expression shutters. Dean hadn't realized how accustomed he'd become to seeing emotion on Castiel's face until it's gone. He remembers kissing Cas a week ago, and suddenly he's torn in the worst way possible.

"Should I go?" Castiel asks, after one long awkward moment has passed.

Dean says "No" at the same time Sam says "Don't" and there's another pause.

It's Sam who breaks it first. He's still pressed against Dean, and Dean can feel little tremors running through him. "What...what happened to me?"

Dean glances at Castiel once, then looks back at Sam. "What do you remember?"

Sam stops walking, sits down on the other bed and stays quiet for a moment. "It's—I'm not sure. I was with you," he says again, looking back up. "Both of you...before that, uh." He pauses, wipes uselessly at his eyes. "Hell. The cage. Then it's—weird. I don't know. I remember being pulled up, but I remember staying there, and..."

"Two sets of memories," Castiel supplies quietly, from his corner. "The memories your mind has will be different from the types of memories a soul alone can make. They may take some time to reconcile with each other."

Sam's quiet for a long moment, and Dean almost says something, but then he sees Sam reach up and touch the amulet. "You found it."

Dean swallows. "Cas helped."

"I should go," Castiel says, and it's not a question this time.

"No, don't." Sam stands up, takes one step towards him. "Please. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" He waves a hand.

Dean's a little more active than that, though; he knows Cas and he knows that tone and even then he's still lucky he gets his hand around Castiel's wrist before he disappears. "_Don't_," he insists. "Just—don't, Cas, okay?"

Castiel's eyes drop to the floor. "I don't think I need to be here any longer."

"The hell you don't. You gave up too much—Cas, you deserve be here more than I do. I'm not lettin' you get away that easy." He lets Castiel go. Castiel stays and he let out a slow breath, goes over to Sam.

"Hey, uh—can I—?" There's a catch in his voice.

Sam meets his eyes, hesitates a little before answering, "Yeah." He takes the amulet off and hands it to Dean.

"Crowley gave me your soul back in this." Dean's looking down at where it's resting in his palm, rubbing his thumb over it again. "We went back to 1983 to give it to Bobby, to give you some time to heal. And Cas—" Dean looks back at Castiel. "Cas stayed with you until the Christmas you gave me this. Eight years. Watching out for you, you know, until I could."

Sam swipes a hand across his eyes again; he hasn't stopped crying yet. "Thank you," he says. "God, Cas—you don't have to _leave_. Not after—"

"I don't need to stay," Castiel objects. "The two of you—"

Sam looks away, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "Look, I told you before that we weren't—"

"You only say that," Castiel says, and he looks more pissed than Dean's seen him in awhile, "because you blame yourself for _everything_, Sam—"

"It's not fair of me to just—"

Dean's always up for watching a good catfight, but these two aren't exactly the Doublemint twins, and Sam and Cas both look way too close to walking out. "Whoa, hey, hold on," he says, before it can go much further. "Do I get a say in this?"

"No," they say, at the same time.

"You get your soul back and the first thing you do is start arguing about my _love life_? Really?" Dean's pulse is racing and he doesn't quite know why—maybe because he's afraid he has to choose now, because he's afraid either way he'll lose. "For God's sake, Sam, I read your freakin' _suicide_ note, okay? If you still think you—that you _disappointed_ me or something, and that's why you want to ditch, you can forget that right now, because I am _not_ letting you go again."

Sam gives him this sad, pathetic look. It's shockingly familiar, and Dean wants to kiss him again. "But Cas—"

"Yeah, I know. Not too happy with him, either." Dean turns. "You really think you're gonna waste eight years on us and just bail? C'mon, Cas."

There's a long silence. _For fuck's sake_, Dean thinks. The self-sacrificing bullshit is supposed to be his gig, not Castiel's and certainly not Sam's. They both deserve everything he can give them and more, and he loves both of them so much it's scary. It's not fair he has to choose.

So he won't.

"I'm gonna say this once and that's it." Dean sits down on one of the beds, rubs his temples. There's almost no way to word this that doesn't sound like a chick flick moment. "I'm not gonna—pick one of you, okay? So forget it. We can do it both ways. We'll make it work, the three of us." He rubs his hand over his mouth. "I mean, unless you two have a problem with that—"

"No," Sam says quickly. "I don't. I mean—"

Dean looks up, sees Sam is looking at Cas.

"Are you referring to polyamory?" Castiel asks, and Dean puts his face back in his hand.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I am. Not like I can be worried about what's politically correct at this point anyway." He sighs, flops back on the bed. His eyes are closed; he doesn't really want to have to deal with how complicated this could get right now. He doesn't care. He's not choosing. "So if _polyamory_ is okay with everybody, I vote we go downstairs and make breakfast. Sam hasn't had anything to eat in like a week."

Breakfast is a mostly quiet affair after they actually start eating (with Cas as the exception; apparently spaghetti-os aren't his thing). Sam doesn't talk a lot, but listens to Dean and Castiel fill in the details of what happened. Dean watches him carefully, but he seems okay for the most part, and he starts to relax by the end of the meal.

The first time he takes his eyes off of Sam is when he turns to put his bowl in the sink. He's rinsing it off and making some dumb comment about Bobby's homemaking skills when he hears the sound of breaking glass behind him. Sam's kneeling on the floor, his own bowl in a million jagged pieces around his feet and leftover spaghetti-os splattered all over the tiled floor like blood. His eyes are squeezed shut; he's breathing too fast.

Castiel gets there first. He's beside Sam in half a second, hand on his back. "Sam?"

"I..." Sam jerks away when Dean gets close enough to try and touch him. "I let you get turned," he says, not meeting Dean's eyes. "I just stood there and _watched_."

"Hey." Dean's done enough angsting over this for both of them; he doesn't want to think about it anymore. "It's okay, Sam. It wasn't you. Forget about it." He kneels next to Sam too, tips his face up so Sam has to look at him. "I'm fine. It's over with. It wasn't your fault."

It takes a little coaxing to get Sam up off the floor and clean up the mess, but Dean's more careful after that. Sam's soul might be healed, but he has a year and a half of memories of the things his body did without his conscience to deal with, and Dean's not going to let him do it alone.

That pretty much dictates their sleeping arrangements, too. Sam wakes up in the middle of the night freaking out about two dead kids his soulless self decided were acceptable _collateral damage_, back when Dean was still at Lisa's. It kills Dean to watch him suffer like that, beat himself up over something that wasn't his fault. After Hell he would wake up in the middle of the night biting clean through his lip because he tried so hard to keep quiet, keep it a secret. He won't let that happen to Sam. He pushes their beds together and gets behind Sam, leaves an arm over his waist so there's no way Sam can wake up without waking Dean up too. They used to do this a lot more often when they were kids; it's different now, but just because Sam's bigger than him doesn't mean Dean can't hold him.

They give Castiel five minutes to pick up on it himself before Sam pulls him down into the beds with them.

"I don't require sleep," Castiel protests.

"I don't care," Sam mumbles. "Take off your shoes, would you?"

So Castiel takes off his shoes. He sleeps on one side of Sam, and Dean sleeps on the other, and the next night they fall into bed that way without any prompting.

Being all back in one piece is odd. Sam's not quite used to his body or his soul, and they both keep surprising him. He can't get enough sleep; he's almost always tired, no matter when he gets up or goes to bed. He naps a lot during the day, can't seem to stay awake for more than a few hours at a time. Dean and Castiel never let him sleep alone, though; one of them is always either close by or actually sleeping next to him.

When Dean asks Sam what that was like, being in the amulet, Sam doesn't have an immediate reply. "Like being half-awake," he says, after a long moment, "when you can't really remember what you were dreaming and all you wanna do is go back to sleep." His memories are fuzzy at best, but it felt something like this, always cradled between Dean and Castiel, safely passing from one pair of warm hands to another. He could feel them, both of them; he does remember that much. And he tells Dean that, too.

He'll feel a tug of emotion and express it right away whether he wants to or not; laughter or tears, and no matter which it is he has trouble stopping once he starts. There's a few false starts before he can laugh without losing it. It takes much longer before he starts to feel comfortable in his skin again.

When he sleeps, he dreams. He wakes up in a cold sweat, but always with someone's hands on him, Dean's or Castiel's, someone's lips pressed to his ear telling him to calm down, that everything's okay, that that's all over with, now.

It's bad tonight. He dreams of killing Castiel with the snap of his fingers, twisting Bobby's head around and breaking his neck. He dreams of Dean, of hurting Dean—not with angelic or demonic powers but with his own two hands, beating him and beating him until his face is swollen and bloody, and Dean is still saying _Sam, it's okay. It's okay, I'm here. I'm here; I'm not gonna leave you. I'm not gonna leave you—_

"Sam."

Sam's thrashing, _trying to take control_, and two strong hands grab his wrists, squeeze tight until _Lucifer's got him under his heel again_ Sam's awake enough to tell the difference between dreams and reality, memories and the here and now.

"Are you all right?" Castiel's voice is even and calm; when Sam nods, he feels the grip on his wrists ease. "What were you dreaming about?"

Sam lets out a slow breath. His head is aching like it used to when he got visions. Dean used to get him painkillers at the very least, but more often he'd distract Sam in one of the hundred ways he'd picked up from a lifetime spent too close to each other. Dean's somewhere downstairs right now, though, double-checking the salt lines or maybe just looking for a few minutes by himself. But Castiel's always awake, always with Sam when Dean's not; Dean would never leave otherwise. Sam hasn't been alone once since he woke up, and he's grateful for that. Because he things he's done, the things he remembers...

"Lucifer," he tells Castiel. No point in being anything but honest. "Before I jumped."

Castiel runs a thumb lightly over the inside of Sam's wrist. "Try to put it out of your mind," he says quietly, and Sam wants to, he does, but he can still feel the phantom crack of Dean's cheekbone under his knuckles, still see Cas's body exploding into a hundred bloody pieces.

"I killed you," he says. "I nearly killed Dean." That's what a lifetime of praying got him; a lifetime of trying to be normal, trying to be _good_. Satan himself inside his skin, demon blood pumping through his veins. Hurting the people he loves most over and over again.

"No." Castiel's hand slides up Sam's arm, lightly. "That was Lucifer, not you. What you did was admirable, Sam, and you're a good man." Sam wants to correct him or thank him, but Castiel doesn't give him the chance; his head tips forward a little and then they're kissing. This is better; this grounds Sam to the present, reminds him that he's still here and Castiel is still here, makes it a little easier to forget the feeling of Dean's bones snapping under his hands—

He pulls back, a little, meeting Castiel's eyes. Cas has a hand on Sam's face now, one thumb running over his eyebrow. "You can't mean that." Sam's smiling a little, but his tone is kind of sad.

"I do," Castiel insists lightly. "I suppose it runs in your bloodline. Along with certain other favorable—"

Sam covers his lips in another kiss, having to stop himself from smiling into it; whether he's a good man or not is up for debate, but Castiel's intentions are in the right place anyway, and Sam loves him a little for it. The kiss breaks, and Sam tells him, "You kiss like Dean."

"So do you," Castiel says, and Sam laughs softly.

"He learned from the best," Dean says from the doorway, and Sam nearly jumps out of his skin.

"How long have you been standing there?" he demands. Castiel's hands are still on him, and he feels a little weird, but—this is okay, Dean said this was okay, so he doesn't pull away.

Dean looks a little more than okay with it, actually; Sam hasn't seen that kind of interest on his face in a long time. "Awhile." Dean raises his eyebrows; when he shifts, the amulet on his chest glints a little in the streetlight coming from outside. "Didn't want to interrupt the show." He pauses, goes over to the bed. "You okay?" he asks, quieter.

"Yeah," Sam says, and he means it. There's something about being with the two of them that reassures him, reminds him hazily of spending a lifetime next to Dean's heart. When Dean comes back to the bed, Sam tips his head up, meets Dean in a kiss. He feels Castiel's hand run back through his hair. Dean's a little crazy, but _We'll do it both ways_ is actually working out pretty well.

"Roll over," Dean mutters, when the kiss breaks.

"What?"

"Headache, right?" Dean asks, but he's already turning Sam over, and how the hell did he know? "I used to do this a lot," Dean says, and he's talking to Castiel now. "Back when he got those visions. He had the worst fucking time trying to get to sleep, he'd get all cramped up when he had nightmares." Sam feels Dean's weight settle on his thighs, recalls the position from a thousand nights spent with Dean in cheap motel rooms, just the two of them against the world. It's something he's ached for since he lost, something he thought he'd never have again.

"I could take care of the pain," Castiel offers.

"Yeah, I know," Dean says, and Sam can hear the smile in his voice. "But it's more fun this way. Huh, Sammy?" Sam can feel Dean's fingers sliding up his sides, sneaking under the hem of his shirt and peeling it off. The air is cool against his skin, and Sam can feel both pairs of eyes on him. "Learned this shit back when I was still cutting class in high school," Dean says, and Sam feels his fingers find just the right place on his back and dig in. "Older women, I'm tellin' you."

"Dean—" Sam arches a little under Dean's hands. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to wrestle down everything this makes him _feel_—he was so sure for so long that Dean wouldn't want this with him again. That the desperate needy sex they had the night before Hell really was the last time.

"Like this," Dean is telling Cas, and the way his hands work on Sam's back, the way he remembers exactly how to get the tension out after all this time, is enough to make Sam's throat tighten and his eyes burn. "Here, try it."

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere." Dean moves, and then he's stretching out next to Sam. "Just enjoying the view." He touches Sam's face lightly. "You with us?"

"Yeah," Sam manages. He opens his eyes to see Dean's got his own shirt off now, propped up on one elbow, just looking.

Dean leans in and lets his lips brush over Sam's jaw. The angle's wrong for kissing, but the light touch makes Sam shiver anyway, and he has to close his eyes again.

"Fast learner," Dean tells Cas, sounding mildly impressed. Sam closes his eyes, hears the light smacking sound their lips make when they kiss, the soft moan of appreciation Cas lets out.

"You make it easy to want to learn," Castiel returns. Then his hand is on Sam's face. "Relax. I intend to become just as skilled at this as Dean is."

Sam presses his face into the pillow, laughs a little. "All right."

It's ridiculously hot, lying there under Castiel, listening to Dean list off exactly how Sam likes being touched and exactly where. It's been three years on Earth and several decades apiece in Hell, but Dean's still got it all memorized, every single thing that turns Sam on. He teaches it to Castiel with a patience Sam hasn't seen since Dean taught him to fix the Impala, for after he was gone.

By the time Castiel gets down to his lower back, Sam is completely lax, every sign of tension melted away. He doesn't protest when he feels Castiel's thumbs slip under the waistband of pants, just raises his hips obligingly to help get the rest of his clothes off.

Sam's never been with more than one person at once, and it feels a little unbalanced; when he twists around to look over his shoulder he can see Dean still has his pants on, and Castiel's fully dressed. "Not fair," he croaks weakly.

"I'm gettin' there," Dean tells him. "Just take it easy."

But Sam wants to watch, and he does; after Castiel gets off of him, he turns on his side and gets comfortable. He used to hate seeing Dean and Castiel together; every look and touch reminded him that Cas did what Sam couldn't, that Dean trusted Castiel where he wouldn't or couldn't trust Sam. He burned with jealousy and self-loathing every time he saw that handprint on Dean's shoulder; Castiel's mark, where all the scars Sam knew from stitching them up himself had been erased.

Sam wishes that entire year had never happened: everything with Ruby, the angels and their machination, the look on Dean's face when he told Sam about Hell. He'd had to set the Devil loose before he realized he'd hit rock bottom. He's been trying to make up for that year ever since then, and part of that meant making peace with Dean and Castiel and whatever relationship they wound up having. Near the end, just before he jumped, Sam was even grateful that Dean would have someone to look after him, keep him happy.

Dean looks happy now; there's this open look on his face that he only really gets during sex, and it's ridiculously hot, always has turned Sam on more than it should. And really—Sam's just happy that Dean's happy, that he can be this open with anybody, but especially the two of them. Sam doesn't think of Cas as competition anymore. He's an ally, a friend, and now a lover too; himself a _good man_.

There's an ease between the two of them that puts Sam at ease too. It's unmistakable that they've done this before; how many times, Sam's not sure, but it doesn't matter to him now. They're both smiling a little; Castiel lets out a choked little laugh when Dean tugs him forward by his tie. They meet in a kiss, and Dean undoes the tie with one hand, working the under between Castiel's trench coat and his shoulder. He slides it off of Castiel's shoulders and lets it pool around him on the sheets, finishes with the tie and tosses it carelessly behind him. The rest of Castiel's clothes come off just as easily; Cas is cooperative, lifts his arms up to help get his shirt off, helping Dean with the button on his pants.

Sam doesn't realize he made a sound until Dean glances over at him, smiles a little. "Told you I was the best," he teases softly, casting an appreciative eye over Sam's body. "Maybe I should show you what Cas likes, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam agrees, and no sooner is the word out of his mouth is Dean pulling Cas forward again, moving into him in a steady, fluid motion that leaves Sam breathless. In some ways seeing it is better than feeling it. Dean is graceful, and he's goddamn _gorgeous_; he makes sex look like an art.

Castiel's hands slide up Dean's sides, over his shoulders, and he lays a hand on that scar on Dean's arm and squeezes a little. It's an intimate gesture, and Sam's sees Dean's reaction on his face; a lot of feelings he'll never put words to that Sam can read anyway. Once it would have driven Sam into a blind rage, but now he's just struck by a sudden rush of gratitude for Castiel, for bringing Dean back to him and putting him back together so perfectly. Sam sits up, moves forward. He kisses Castiel about the same time Dean works a hand into Castiel's pants, and Castiel moans into his mouth, the most human-like sound Sam's ever heard from him.

"Sam," Castiel breathes between that kiss and the next, and all of Sam's blood rushes south. Castiel tips his head back. Sam takes the invitation, leaving heavy kisses pressed over his jaw, moving down to the place where his neck meets his shoulder.

"His ear," Dean instructs, breathing a little heavier. Sam gets it; his teeth close lightly around Castiel's earlobe and Castiel moans again, both hands on Sam now. "_Fuck_," Dean breathes, and then he's tugging Sam away, moving past him to get Castiel's pants off. Those wind up on the floor, and then Dean glances over at Sam. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with arousal; it's a look Sam hasn't seen on him in a long time. "Not done with you yet." His voice is low and rough with arousal; Sam aches just to hear it. Dean moves forward, leans Sam back against the bed, kisses him once and then turns him back over.

"Are you ever gonna let me up?" Sam mumbles against the pillows. He's laying sort of diagonally over the two beds, Castiel on one side, Dean on the other. He sighs, feels Dean rub his back.

"Maybe." Dean leaves a kiss at the nape of Sam's neck and slides off the bed. "Be right back," he promises, going for the lube. Sam is warmed at the familiarity of it; Dean started keeping lube in his bag a long time ago, and it brings back memories from when things were easier between them.

Dean tosses the lube to Cas, though, settles himself on Sam's thighs again. Dean's still got his pants on, and the denim is rough against Sam's skin, but he can feel Dean's arousal straining against his jeans. "I'll let you up if you really want," Dean says lightly, and his hands are working Sam's back again, taking a definite downward motion. "But I thought we'd take care'a you tonight. Gotta teach Cas a thing or two about the finer points eventually, huh?"

A strong jolt of arousal goes through Sam at that. "You're gonna let Cas—?"

"This isn't all about me, Sam," Dean answers. "Lift up." Then Dean's moving, sliding a pillow under Sam's hips so he's angled just right, running his hands down Sam's sides and over his ass. Sam parts his legs obligingly, and it's just a little embarrassing, but he's turned on enough that it's all he can do not to press into the pillow for a little relief. "You've already got him halfway there," Dean tells Castiel, sounding impressed, and Sam has to agree; the massage was _perfect_, half the reason he feels so relaxed and open now.

Castiel doesn't seem to need any specific instruction; he pops the lube open without prompt, and a second later Sam feels Castiel's finger teasing lightly against his hole. He shivers, and Cas pulls back.

"Did I—?" Castiel starts, and Sam laughs weakly.

"No," he promises. "S'just cold. Keep going, I want it." And _God_ does he want it; when he feels Cas again he arches up a little, spreads his legs wider to accommodate him, shivers again when he feels Castiel's breath against his skin. He hears Dean say his name from somewhere behind him and then hears Dean unzip his jeans and slide them off. He can imagine Dean touching himself, getting off watching this, and it gets another low groan out of him. "Cas, _please_."

Cas takes it slowly. That's partially Dean's fault; Dean's a tease and he's the one telling Cas _slow it down, take it easy, he can wait_. But Castiel's a quick learner and he's apparently learned to love teasing Sam, because he does it and does it well; he doesn't move up to the second finger until Sam begs him.

And what makes it worse: he can hear Dean behind them, breathing quick, and he can feel Dean's eyes on them. But Dean's not touching himself; Sam knows that without looking. There's no slap of skin on skin, none of the noises Dean would be making if he was. He's actually been quieter since Cas got really into what he was doing, but he still breathes a gentle prompt or comment now and then, voice pitched low and heavy with arousal.

Sam's ready before Dean and Cas are; he's jerking his hips against the pillow, then back into the three fingers Castiel has inside him. He's sweating, he's flushed; he's a fucking _mess_ and all he wants is Cas inside him. "Come _on_." Cas angles his fingers just so, hits Sam's prostate, and it's all Sam can do not to finish right then. "_Castiel_," he moans, and finally has to pull away.

When he turns around he sees both of them are just as much of a mess as he is. Castiel is covered in a light sheen of sweat, and when Sam yanks him down to kiss him he imagines he can taste Dean on Castiel's lips.

"I'm not gonna wait." Sam's panting, a little; when he sees Dean over Castiel's shoulder, hard and flushed, eyes trained on them, he has to close his own eyes against the sight. It's been too long since he's seen Dean like this, since he even felt like he was _worth_ seeing Dean like this.

And he knows—he knows Dean doesn't want this to just be about them, and it isn't. There's honestly...the way Cas learns his weak spots, the way Cas refuses to judge him, that Cas stayed with him for _eight years_; it's not like he's here with Cas because he thinks it's the only way to Dean. But Dean's still on the edge of the bed—watching, but not touching, not even himself. And Sam misses him. Wants him too. He just wonders if—

The thought's put out of his mind; Castiel's kissing him again, almost like he can sense Sam's insecurity. Sam goes into it gratefully, hands sliding up Castiel's sides. He's open and loose, pliant and ready, and Castiel's touch calms him, makes him want more. Cas feels warm under his hands, and Sam wants him, wants to see what it's like with him, know him better. "Not gonna wait," he murmurs into Castiel's lips. He falls back, pulls Castiel down on top of him; lets a hiss out through his teeth when the back of his head hits the headboard.

"You'll injure yourself if you aren't careful." Castiel's face is pressed against Sam's shoulder; Sam can feel his breath hot against his skin. The way they've landed is a little awkward, but good; Castiel's got a thigh pressed right where it needs to be.

Sam shifts up just a little. "Don't care," he says roughly, straining against the impulse tomove against Castiel's leg. He remembers having sex without his soul, barely, but it was just his body taking care of an urge; it was nothing like this. He feels a million different ways at once, and as usual of late, he's having a hard time keeping it all under control. "_Lower_, Cas," he gasps.

Castiel drops a kiss on Sam's shoulder. "Of course. Let me know," he says. "What you like, what you don't. Stop me if I go too fast." He smiles lopsidedly, something between fondness and amusement. "I've never done this before."

Before Sam can really process that, Castiel's sliding inside him. The last thing they need to worry about is Cas going too fast; it's perfect. "Oh, God—" Sam folds his legs up around Castiel's waist, draws him in closer and arches up into the feeling. "_Cas._" He closes his eyes.

A hand cards through his hair, and there's a gentle press of lips against temple. Fingers ghost lightly down Sam's side, and it feels so...it just _feels_. He opens his eyes again.

Dean's stretched out beside him again, close enough to touch. "Hey," he greets softly, and one hand slides down Sam's chest to his length, stroking him slowly, matching the rhythm of Castiel's movements. Sam makes a small noise in the back of his throat and squeezes his eyes shut against the feeling, against the look on Dean's face that he's afraid to try and understand.

"Uh-uh," Dean says. "Look at me."

Sam does, unwillingly, heart pounding against his ribs.

"I used to get so pissed at you sometimes, you know that?"

Sam feels Castiel's lips on his chest, sucking one nipple between his teeth. It makes it hard to focus, to listen to Dean, and Sam's grateful. He doesn't want to hear this. He knows it already; knows Dean's bitter that he didn't fight off Meg, that he chose Ruby over family. He's never going to forget that, no matter how long he stayed in that amulet. _Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak..._ He only heard that voicemail once, but every word is burned into his brain. _You're a monster, Sam—a vampire. You're not _you_ anymore. And there's no going back._ "I know," Sam chokes.

"All the time," Dean says. "You're so stubborn, Sam, never did listen to a damn word anybody said. Always went your own way, you know? I swear I thought it'd be the end of you. All of us, even."

Sam squeezes his eyes shut again, lets out a small sound through clenched teeth when he feels Castiel hits just the right angle inside of him.

But it's not possible for Dean to hate him more than he hates himself. The only thing Sam doesn't understand is why Dean brings this up _now_, when Dean's got a hand working his length and Cas is balls deep in him. Sam wants to tense up or turn away, but Castiel's movements slow down, and that makes Dean impossible to ignore.

"Look at me." Dean's hand is on his face. Sam doesn't open his eyes, and Dean insists again: "Sammy, look at me."

It's the nickname that does it, convinces Sam that maybe he can hear this. A thousand times or more that name has left Dean's lips, in happiness or love or even sadness, but not in anger. Never that.

So Sam opens his eyes—and just sees Dean, sees his brother looking calmer and more content than he has in years. There's a scar above his eye he got trying to save Sam's soul, but nothing like anger or resentment on his face.

"I know better now." Dean's fingers brush under Sam's eye, and Sam tries to figure out when he started crying. "Known it for awhile, but I never got around to tellin' you. I mean—you were gone, man, and when you got back..."

"Yeah," Sam chokes, and Castiel shushes him, presses a kiss against his face. "I know."

"Yeah, well. I'll tell you somethin' you don't know." Dean's free hand moves up Sam's face, tuck his hair behind his ear the way he used to do when they were kids and Sam was _sick_ with being lonely, being the only kid in the world who attended a dozen different schools every year and being the only one in their little family who even _cared_. "And I'm only gonna say it once, so listen to me, Sam, _look_ at me." Dean meets Sam's eyes, and there's some softness in his expression Sam can't quite put a name to. "Yeah, okay, you've fucked up. But we all do, Sam. I mean, you wanna talk about bad decisions? When it got down to the wire, _you_ kept swinging. And that was your choice. Me? Hell, Sam, I was ready to throw in the towel."

Sam can't stand it. It's too much, Castiel moving inside of him, kissing him while Dean jacks him off and _says_ things like this. He tries, "But you didn't—"

"You're right. I didn't. But don't go forgetting who pulled me back from the edge." Dean brushes his thumb under Sam's eye again. Then he lets go entirely, leaving Sam feeling wanting and raw.

"Dean?" Sam asks, and then—Dean's kissing him, both hands on his face, really kissing Sam with nothing behind it except wanting to be closer. No desperation, no anger, just...

Dean draws back, and Sam feels his hand on him again, strokes surer and more focused now. "Whatever it is you're still beatin' yourself up over, let it go," he whispers.

Sam twists against the sheets, holds tight to Castiel. "I-I don't. Dean—"

"It's behind you now," Castiel says quietly, breathing labored. His lips are pressed against Sam's forehead, and it's all Sam can do to try and listen to that, believe it's true. "Whatever sins are in your past, you've atoned."

"I'm not even _human_," Sam says raggedly, without thinking about it. It's true; he's had demon blood in him all his life, and then once Dean was gone he just kept sucking down more. _You're a monster, Sam—a vampire._ "You can't just _atone_ for—"

Castiel silences him with a kiss. "You're right." He's slowed his movements down a little, and he's focusing on the conversation rather than what they're doing. "It is no quick or simple process. But you have. And Sam, you _are_ human."

"Born human." Sam can't stand it. He feels so twisted up and dirty inside, and it wasn't supposed to be like this. They were supposed to work out, the three of them. Instead he feels low, not even worthy of being here with them. "Born human," he says again. "I'm not anymore."

Dean and Castiel exchange a quick glance, and for a moment Sam's terrified that they'll see he's right and leave him, push him away, something—

"But you are." Dean's speaking to him now, and Sam can't make himself meet his brother's eyes. "When Cas was checkin' for your soul, right when we first found out—he left a little angel mojo in you, Sam. Demon blood's all gone by now."

Sam's world turns over and falls apart. "What?"

"It was unintentional," Castiel pants. His hand is unsteady as it brushes Sam's hair away from his sweaty face. "But I—I find that I don't regret it. You are—human, Sam. Body and soul."

Sam's shaking. He can't believe it, and at the same time he knows they wouldn't lie. The knowledge is buzzing inside him, too big to know what to do with; he's all tensed up and he can hardly catch his breath. And Castiel's still at that perfect angle, hitting Sam's sweet spot every time, Dean's hand is still on him, grip strong and sure, and _they're not lying_. He's _human_.

"So let it go," Dean says. His eyes are locked on Sam's face; Sam can feel it without having to see. "You hear me, Sam? Just let go."

And Sam does; he comes with an intensity that surprises him, his body locking up around Castiel's, evidence of it warm and messy between their stomachs. He can't do anything but ride it out; dig his fingers into Castiel's back and hang on. That's not the only thing he's letting go of, though. There's years and years of self-loathing and shame coming to an end. Guilt that's kept him awake for nearly all the nights of his life begins to fade, and the regrets and failures that have followed one step behind him no matter how fast or far he tried to run from them finally fall behind.

He comes down a little from his high, registers vaguely that Castiel is still inside him, but lying on his chest, absolutely drained; the warmth inside Sam tells him that Cas finished too. Sam folds his arms around him, embraces him tightly. _You fixed me_, he thinks, but it's so much more than that.

"Cas." Sam lays a kiss in Castiel's hair. "Cas."

"Apologies." Castiel's panting a little. "I'll move in just a moment."

Sam squeezes him tighter. "Don't worry about it."

And then he looks over to Dean.

Dean is near the edge of the bed. He's hard, and his eyes are dark as he gazes at them. He isn't touching himself. Sam wondered why before, but he understands now; Dean meant it when he said he didn't want this to be about him. It was for Sam and Castiel; Dean hasn't even taken his own pleasure from it.

"Cas," Sam says again, nudging him a little.

Castiel turns his head, sees Dean. "You didn't—?"

Dean laughs a little, ducking his head. "Hey, don't look so shocked. I'm a gentleman."

Castiel frowns. He leaves a kiss on Sam's face, then eases out of him, leaving Sam feeling empty and still a little blissed out. "You are many things," Castiel tells Dean. "I'm not sure 'gentleman' is one of them." He moves over to Dean, taking him by the shoulders. Before he can do anything else, Dean's eyes close and a shiver runs through him. And Sam sees Castiel's hand pressed over that scar, a perfect fit.

"What do you know anyway," Dean mumbles, and Castiel answers him with a kiss. Dean tips his head up willingly, lets out a soft sound.

Gingerly, Sam sits up, keeping his eyes on them. He feels pleasantly warm all over; lighter, somehow. He watches as Castiel kisses Dean, moves his lips down over Dean's throat and chest—and when Castiel is far enough out of the way, Sam goes over to them, cups the back of Dean's head and kisses him himself. He winds an arm around the back of Dean's waist just in time to feel him shudder—a quick glance down and he's treated to the sight of Castiel's head dipping between Dean's legs, taking him in to the base. Dean practically whimpers into the next kiss.

"Didn't even..." Sam kisses Dean again. "All worried about me and you were just—" He cuts himself off with another kiss; it's no good going on about it. Dean's always been that way about Sam. He's taken advantage of it, railed against it, tried to change it, but it never will. "God, Dean."

Dean lets out a low noise into the next kiss, one hand coming up to grip the back of Sam's head. "Sammy—_fuck_, Cas," he gasps, jerking, parting his legs a little. His other hand goes down to Castiel's head, runs back through his hair.

This is the way it should be, Sam thinks. Dean doesn't deserve to put himself to the side and watch. He deserves whatever he wants. Both of them.

Between Sam's kisses and Castiel apparently having no gag reflex, Dean doesn't get out much more than their names and the occasional swear, so Sam doesn't really catch it the first time Dean says, "Sam, please."

It takes another try. "_Sam._" Dean kisses him, hard, nips at his lower lip. "Little more?"

"What?" Sam asks, bringing his other hand to cup Dean's face, run a thumb over the scar on his eyebrow.

Dean turns his head a little, catches Sam's fingers between his lips, and _sucks_. When Sam draws his fingers away, he clarifies, "Couple'a fingers, Sammy. C'mon." He props one leg up, the most open gesture of trust Sam's seen from Dean in a long time. And that Dean would allow him that, after Hell, after everything—that he's asking Sam specifically when Castiel's already down there...

Sam swallows, hard. "Yeah, okay," he murmurs. It's a bit awkward at first, but Castiel shifts over, gives him enough room to work. His fingers are already wet, so...

Dean clenches up around him at first, then practically melts, his entire body going lax. "Oh, fuck—" He's rocking up shallowly, and it's the hottest thing Sam's ever seen, Dean spread out so open and _trusting_, so clearly enjoying himself.

"C'mon, Dean," Sam murmurs, his lips pressed against Dean's temple, because Dean's not really up to kissing anymore. He's holding Dean, one arm around him, and Castiel's using his free hand to rub Dean's side. Dean's got a hand on each of them and the three of them are all so tangled up in each other, pressed in close together, that there's really no part of anyone that's not being touched somehow. "C'mon," Sam whispers again, angling his finger up—and yeah, he remembers this, just the right way to make Dean crazy.

And then Dean's coming—clenching down around Sam, jerking into both of them, his grip on Sam's body so tight it would be painful if it was anyone else. He's oddly quiet; nothing but a strained noise through his teeth, and then he goes limp, weight heavy and reassuring in Sam's arms.

Castiel eases Dean off of it; he comes up slowly and leaves little kisses on Dean's skin, still rubbing his side. Sam reaches out, pulls Castiel in to kiss him before he can get too far; Cas hasn't swallowed yet and Sam craves the taste, kisses him hungrily, getting every last drop that he can before he lets go, and Castiel parts his lips willingly, allows him to share in it.

"Christ," Dean says weakly.

"Not exactly," Castiel says.

Sam laughs, falls down on the bed next to Dean. He sneaks an arm around Dean's waist, presses his face into his shoulder. It's not very different from the way they've been sleeping together for the past few nights, but this time it's just skin on skin, and Sam doesn't think he'll ever be able to get enough of it. He feels Castiel lie down behind him, fitting into place against him perfectly. "So I'm human," he says finally, softly. His fingers are tracing the edges of Dean's tattoo, feeling his pulse beneath his skin. He closes his eyes. "Almost sounds too good to be true."

He feels Castiel slip an arm around his waist. "It's true. You have my word. And it didn't come for free; there's no reason to fear it."

Sam remembers—eight years. Sam remembers—an alpha werewolf. Castiel's right. They've sacrificed. And he isn't afraid.

"And _you_ said there was no going back." Sam lays a kiss on Dean's shoulder. "You're such a pessimist."

"Comes with the gig," Dean dismisses, then: "Anyway, I don't even remember that."

Sam pauses. "Really?" he asks. "Geez, Dean." He kind of wants to turn away, but Castiel's behind him—reminding him he isn't alone. "I swear I could still tell you every word."

"Of what?" Dean asks, perplexed, and he sits up on his elbow a little. "C'mon, I just told you, you never listen to me."

He sounds fond as he says it, and It's stupid, and Sam _knows_ he should let it go, but it's really bothering him, that Dean doesn't even remember it. Not like Sam wants to remember it either but— "Dude. The fucking voicemail you left me, the night I popped the box."

"Voicemail?" Castiel asks.

"Well I figured it didn't go through," Dean says, looking bemused. "The whole place was angel-tapped, man."

"So you do remember it."

Castiel sits up. "I think there was a misunderstanding."

"I remember it, but I don't see what the big deal—"

"The big _deal_? Dean, you—"

"There was a _misunderstanding_," Castiel says again, loudly enough this time that Sam and Dean both twist around to look at him. "The place was—'angel-tapped', as you say. Dean, Sam never got your voicemail. He received an—altered version, from Zachariah."

"I—really?" Sam whispers. So—not Dean, then. Dean never said—oh _God_. Sam feels the tension drain right out of him, feels his throat close with emotion. He's human, and Dean didn't give up on him after all.

Dean looks concerned, now. "What'd he say? Zachariah, I mean."

Sam lets out a deep sigh. "Nothing that matters," he promises, and he lets that go too. "None of it was true anyway."

Sam flops back down on the bed. After a brief pause, Castiel follows him.

They're quiet, for awhile. Sam wonders if they've fallen asleep—Cas, at least, has no need to, but their breathing is deep and even and Sam feels more content here than he has in a long time.

"You told me I was a monster," Sam says softly, because he thinks Dean might be asleep, not able to hear him. "A vampire."

But Dean squeezes him, lays a kiss on his temple. "No," he says. "I told you—we're family. And no matter how bad it gets, that doesn't change."

Bobby gets home a few days after that. Sam and Castiel move the beds apart while Dean helps him unpack, and they have takeout for dinner and play catch-up. Sam apologizes for everything he's done, and Bobby insists it's behind them. They don't say anything about their new situation. Sam feels like somehow Bobby knows anyway. He always does.

Sometime during the night, Castiel disappears; he's got a war to fight, after all. He doesn't say goodbye. He'll be back.

So life sort of goes back to normal, or at least as normal as it gets for them. There's still work to do; there was a reason Crowley was after Purgatory, and there's something weird going on with the monsters lately. The amulet stays around Dean's neck. He doesn't take it off unless he's showering, and usually when he gets out of the bathroom, he'll find Sam toying with it. Sam and Dean don't bother with two queens anymore, especially if they know Cas is going to show up. War or not, he'll always be back, and when he is, they'll be waiting.

Because no matter how bad it gets, some things don't change.


End file.
